Mar. De brave braine by garre, not a whit of the flower of wit in it. Ile to the Courte after him, and see how he abuses the Duke's patience.
[Exit.
Enter Alphonso, Hard., Lassing., Leander, Stro.,Hosherman, Motto, and Raphe.
Alp. Aye me! what hard extremitie is this? Nor quick nor dead can I beholde my sonne.
Enter Hance in the Princes apparrell.
Hance. Behold your sonne; [your] Blessing, noble father.
Hard. Malipart knave, art thou the Princes sonne?
Han. I, sir, apparrell makes the man.
Alp. Unhappy man, would God I had my sonne, So he had hisHyantheor my life.
Lea. Should he enjoyHyanthe[then], my Lord? Would you forsake your love, so he did live?
Alp. My love and life, did my deere sonne survive.
Lea. But were he found or should he live, my Lord,AlthoughHyanthe'slove were the chiefe causeOf his mishap and amorous lunacie,I hope your highnesse loves him over wellTo let him repossesse his wits with her.
Alp. My love is dead in sorrow for his death; His life and wits should ransome worlds from me.
Lea. My Lord, I had a vision this last nightWherein me thought I sawe the prince your sonneSit in my fathers garden withHyantheUnder the shadow of the Laurell tree.With anger, therefore, you should be so wrongdeI wakt, but then contemned it as a dreame;Yet since my minde beates on it mightelie,And though I thinke it vaine, if you vouchsafe,Ile make a triall of the truthe hereof. [Exit.
Alp. Do, goodLeander. Hardenbergh, your sonnePerhaps deludes me with a vision[79]To mocke my vision that deferde the Dutchesse,And withHyanthecloslie keepes my sonne.
Hard. Your sonne was madde and drownd: this cannot bee.
Alp. But yet this circumventing speech [of his] Offered suspition of such event.
Stro. My lord, most fortunate were that event That would restore your sonne from death to life.
Har. As though a vision should do such a deed!
Alp. No, no, the boyes young brain was humorous: His servant and his Page did see him drown'd.
Enter Leander, Alberdure, Hyanthe; Alberdureseeming fearefull to come forward.
Lea. Come on, sweet friend; I warrant thee thy love; Shun not thy fathers sight that longs for thee.
Alb. Go then before, and we will follow straight.
Lea. Comfort, my Lord, my vision proov'd most true:Even in the place, under the Lawrell shade,I found them sitting just as I beheld themIn my late vision; see, sir, where they come.
Alp. Am I enchanted or see I my sonne?I, I, the boy hath plaide the traytor with me.O, you young villaine, trust you with my love!How smoothe the cunning treacher lookt on it;
Hard. But, sirra, can this be?
Lea. You knew him to be mad, these thought him drownd. My Lord, take you no more delight to see Your sonne recovered of his life and wits?
Alp. See, see, how boldly the young pollyticianCan urge his practice. Sirra, you shall knowIle not be over-reacht with your young braine.All have agreed, I see, to cozen me,But all shall faile. Come, Ladie, I will haveYou spight of all, and, sonne, learne you hereafterTo use more reverend meanes to obtaineOf me what you desire. I have no joyTo see thee raizd from a deluding death.
Hya. My Lord, 'tis tyrannie t'enforce my love.
Lea. I hope your Highnesse will maintaine your word.
Alp. Doost thou speake, Traitor? straight Ile have you safe For daring to delude me in my love.
Albe. O friend, thou hast betraide my love in vaine:Now am I worse then eyther mad or drown'd,Now have I onely wits to know my griefesAnd life to feel them.
Hya. Let me go to him.
Alp. Thou shalt not have thy will nor he his love;Neither of both know what is fit for you.I love with judgment and upon cold bloud,He with youths furie, without reasons stay;And this shall time and my kind usage of theeMake thee discerne; meane time consider this,That I neglect for thee a beautious DutchesseWho next to thee is fairest in the world.
Enter Messenger.
Mess. My Lord, the Duke ofBrunswickand his sister, The beautious Dutchesse, are arrived here.
Alp. Whats that; the Dutchesse?
Mess. Even her grace, my Lord.
Alp. Why,Hardenbergh, ha! is the Dutchesse come?
Hard. I know not, my good Lord. Where is the Dutchesse?
Mess. Hard by, my Lord.
Alp. Sounes, I am not here; go tell her so: Or let her come, my choice is free in love. Come, myHyanthe, stand thou close to me.
Mess. My Lord, the Duke himselfe has come to urge Your promise to him, which you must not break.
Hosch. Nor will you wish to break it, good my lord,I am assur'd, when you shall see the Dutchesse,Whose matchlesse beauties will renew the mindeOf her rare entertainment, and her presencePut all new thoughts of love out of your minde.
Alp. Well, I do see 'tis best, my sweeteHyanthie, That thou stand further.
Hya. Ile be gone, my Lord.
Alp. Not gone, but mix thy selfe among the rest. What a spight is this! counsell me,Hardenbergh.
Hard. The Dutchesse comes, my Lord.
Alp. Out of my life, how shall I look on her?
Enter Constan., Kather., Lassen., Lucil., Cassi.,Cornelia, Ite. A Song: after the Dutchesse speakes.
Kath. How now, my Lord? you looke as one dismaid; Have any visions troubled you of late?
Alp. Your grace and your most princely brother here Are highlie welcome to theSaxonCourt.
Kath. O you dissemble, sir, nor are we come In hope of welcome, but with this poore head-peece To beare the brunt of all discurtesies.
Const. My Lord, wee come not now to urge the marriage,You sought with such hot suite, of my faire Sister,But to resolve ourselves and all the worldWhy you retained such mean conceipt of usTo slight so solemne and so high a contractWith vaine pretext of visions or of dreames.
Alp. My Lord, I here protest by earth and heavenI holde your state right highlie and renownedAnd your faire sisters beauties and desertsTo be most worthy the greatest king alive;Onlie an ominous vision troubled meAnd hindred the wisht speede I would have made(Not to dissolve it, though it were diferd,)By such portents as, least you thinke I faine,LordHardenberghcan witnesse is most true.
Hard. Most true, my lord, and most prodigious.
Alp. Yet Ile contemne them with my life and all Ere Ile offend your grace or breed suspect Of my firme faith in my most honoured love.
Kath. No, no, my lord: this is your vision That hath not frighted but enamoured you.
Alp. O Madame, thinke you so? by Heaven I sweareShe's my sonnes love.—Sirra, take her to you.Have I had all this care to do her grace,To prove her vertues and her love to thee,And standst thou fearefull now? Take her, I say.
Lea. My Lord, he feares you will be angry with him.
Alp. You play the villaine: wherfore should he feare?I onely proved her vertues for his sake,And now you talke of anger. Aye me wretche,That ever I should live to be thus shamed!
Alb. Madame, I sweare the Ladie is my love; Therefore your highnesse cannot charge my father With any wrong to your high woorth in her.
Con. Sister, you see we utterly mistakeThe kinde and princelie dealing of the Duke:Therefore without more ceremonious doubtsLets reconfirme the contract and his love.
Kath. I warrant you, my Lord, the Duke dissembles.
Alp. Heere on my knees, at the altar of those feete,I offer up in pure and sacred breathThe true speech of my hart and hart it selfe.Require no more if thou be princelie borneAnd not of rocks or ruthelesse tygers bred.
Kath. My Lord, I kindlie cry you mercy now,Ashamed that you should injurie your estateTo kneele to me; and vowe before these lordsTo make you all amends you can desire.
Flo. Madame, in admiration of your GraceAnd princelie wisedom, and to gratifieThe long wisht joye done to my Lord the Duke,I here present your highnesse with this cup,Wrought admirablie by th' art of Spirits,Of substance faire, more rich then earthly Jemmes,Whose valew no mans judgement can esteeme.
Alp.Flores, Ile interrupt the Dutchesse thankesAnd for the present thou hast given to herTo strengthen her consent to my desires,I recompence thee with a free releaseOf all offences twixt thy selfe and me.
Flo. I humblie thanke your excellence.
Kath. But where is now unkinde EarleLassinbergh,That injures his faire love and makes her weareThis worthlesse garland? Come, sir, make amends,Or we will heere awarde you worthie penance.
Lass. Madame, since her departure I have done More hartie penance then her hart could wish, And vowe hereafter to live ever hers.
Kat. Then let us cast aside these forlorne wreathes, And with our better fortunes change our habits.
Enter Doctor in poste, the Marchant following him.
Doct. O stay, my Lorte, me pray you on knee von staie.
Alp. What's the matter, Doctor?
Doct. O me bret be garr for haste.
Con. What ayles the hastie Doctor?
Doct. My Lort be garr he lyes falslie in his troate; Me proove by the duell dat he be the fallce knave.
Alp. Who is it, man, with whom thou art so bold?
Doct. My Lorte, if me make my contrack of marriage, if me be not as loose as de vide worlde, if me doe not alleadge—
Alp. I pray thee, man, what meanest thou?
Doct. Be garr, enforme your grace vot he dare I will proove by good argument and raison dat he is de falce beggerlie Jeweller, dat I no point marrieCornelia. Vat say you now?
Cass. My Lord, no doubt some man hath guld the Doctor, Supposing he should be enforste to wed her That is my wife and ever scorned him.
Doct. Vat you say? de Marshan tell a me I marrieCorneliaspit my nose.
Alp. The Marchant I perceive hath trimde you, Doctor. And comb'd you smoothelie. Faith, I can him thanke That thus revives our meeting with such mirth.
Doct. O be bright de heaven, est a possible! and by heaven I be revenge dat vile Marshan, me make de medecine drie up de Sea, seaven towsand, towsand million d'stlloe, fife hundred, hundred dramFuffian, Marquerite, Balestiae, Hematete, Cortemedian, Churchacholl, Pantasite, Petrofidem, Hynape, and by garr de hot Pepre; me make de vinde, de grease collicke puffe, blowe by garr, teare de Sayle, beate de maste, cracke de Ship in towsand towsand peeces!Exit.
Alp. Farewell, gentle Doctor Doddipoll.And now, deere Ladie, let us celebrateOur happie royall nuptials and my sonnesWith this our sweete and generall amitieWhich heaven smile on with his goulden eye.
Finis Actus Quinti & ultimi.
Imprinted at London by Thomas Creede, for Richard Olive, dwelling in Long-lane. 1600.
In the Appendix to Vol. II. I have given some account of this anonymousplay, which is here printed for the first time from Egerton MS. 1994.As the play bears no title in the MS., I have named it at a venture"The Distracted Emperor."
An ill-shaped and repulsive piece of work it certainly is; crude and cheerless, but marked with signs of unmistakable power. At the time when I made the extracts for the Appendix, I thought that Cyril Tourneur might possibly be the author. On further reflection, it seemed to me that the stronger passages are much in Marston's manner. The horrid scene where Charlimayne is represented hugging the dead queen recalls the anonymous "Second Maiden's Tragedy." Marston, who shrank from nothing, would not have hesitated to show us the Archbishop, in his search for the magic ring, parting the dead queen's lips, with the ironical observation, "You cannot byte me, Madam." The trenchant satire that abounds throughout the play reminds us frequently of Marston, though there is an absence of that monstrous phraseology which distinguished his "Scourge of Villanie" and early plays. But, looking at the play as a whole, I should have very great hesitation in allowing it to be Marston's. My impression is that Chapman had the chief hand in it. The author's trick of moralising at every possible opportunity, his abundant use of similes more proper to epic than dramatic language, the absence of all womanly grace in the female characters,—these are points in which the present play may be compared with Chapman's published tragedies. Orlando's speech at the beginning of Act ii., "O that my curse had power to wound the starres," &c., in which he compares himself, with epic elaboration, to "an argosie sent rychlye fourthe" and now "meanelye retourninge without mast or helm," to my thinking closely suggests Chapman. It is not quite impossible that the present play may be Chapman's lost "French tragedy" (entered on the Stationers' Registers, June 29, 1660), a copy of which was among the plays destroyed by Warburton's cook.
It is due to Mr. Fleay that I should mention his solution of the difficulty. Taking the mysterious letters on the last page, "Nella [Greek: ph d ph n r] la B," he says: "La B. is the contraction for La Buffa,[80] one of the characters in the play; and the enigmatic letters, simply substituting the names for the letters themselves, read thus,' Nella fi-deltà fi-ni-ro la buffa,' which is good enough Italian for an anagram, meaning 'I will end trifling in fidelity.' But 'Nella fedelità (or fidelità) finiro la B.' transposed, gives us 'Il Fabro Natanielli (or Natanielle) Field,' i.e., 'Nathaniel Field the author'" (Athenaeum, March 3, 1883). Far be it from me to deny the ingenuity of this explanation, but when Mr. Fleay, not having seen the complete play, proceeds to say that the extracts I gave "are quite consistent with the supposition that it is one of Field's lost works," I must take leave to dissent. Field is the author of two comedies, "A Woman is a Weathercock" and "Amends for Ladies," and he assisted Massinger in the "Fatal Dowry." His comedies are well-constructed, bright, and airy. There is no slovenliness in the workmanship, and success is attained by honest, straightforward endeavour. It seems to me quite incredible that the author of those two admirable comedies should be responsible for the gloomy, ponderous tragi-comedy here presented to the reader. What share Field had in the "Fatal Dowry" I do not intend to discuss minutely. The chief figure in that play, Charolois, I take to be a study in Massinger's gravest manner; but if we allow that Field should be credited with more than the comic scenes in the "Fatal Dowry," his claim to the present play is not at all strengthened. Perhaps, after all, no author's name is concealed under the enigmatic letters.[81] In any case, Field's is the last name that could be put forward with any show of likelihood.
Printed for the first time from Egerton MS. 1994.
The Distracted Emperor.
Actus Primus.
Enter La Busse and Didier.
Bus. Thou looke for dygnitie! yes, thou mayst looke, But pray thee, fellowe, see thyne eies be good Or thou mayst looke and never fynde the way.
Did. Howe can myne eies fayle when so fayre a marke As honor lyes before me?
Bus. Thou sayst well;The thought of honor is a perfect greene,And greene is good for th'eie syghte. Syllie man,Arte growne fantastycke in thy latter days?Trust me, I thought thou rather couldst have wishtTo feele thyne eies bournt out into their sockettsThen thus to live and see the blacke disgraceThat will approatche, and soone, if thou darest live.And yet you looke for dygnitie! oh madnes!What, haveinge fyrst beene cheated of thy wealthe,Darest thou againe be cheated of thy witt,—And thynke so poor a lord as is my father,The most dyspysd forsakenGanelon,Can propp thy mynde,[82] fortune's shame upon thee!Wayte with a trencher, goe learne policye;A servingman at dynner tyme will teach theeTo give attendance on the full-fedd gueste,Not on the hungry sharke; and yet you thynkeTo feede on larke by serving my poore father!
Did. Nothing but larke,La Busse? Yes, mightie surloyns.
Bus. Your lorde and master would be gladd of halfe.Pyttied companion, spare thy feeble eies,Looke not for honor least thou loose thy syghte.Such followers as thou, that would repayreA broken state by service, may be lycknedTo shypwrackt marchants that will rather seekeTo catche a rotten board or to be castUppon some frozen Ile then perish quycklie.But thou perhapps seekst voluntary pennance,Meaninge to perishe in a frozen clymeBecause thou hast abused thy former blessings;Thy gameinge humor hath beene like a fyer.
Did. Why? because my money burnte in my pursse tyll I left it?
Bus. No, but because it taught the furyous wayTo blasphemye and curses which have kyndledA desperatt fyer in thee to play and loose,So that although thou purchase letteres patenteTo begge in all the provynces ofFraunce,Pretendinge that thy state was lost by fyer,Yet thou wouldst dye a beggar.
Did. If I dyeBefore my letters pattente be expyred,Howe can I chuse (though I repayre my state)?But leaveing thys and you to the pore hopeOf other mens and perhaps my cast cloathes,I tell thee, syllie creature, I am noweSpreadinge my wings and mountinge to a heyghteFrom whence I will with scorne beholde such thyngsAs all th'ambityon thou art master ofCan never make thee hope or wish to be.And for my fortunes past, which you so muchEsteeme and present [sic] wouldst doe reverence toe,I vallewe theym at thys! and for the likeWould not bestowe the labor of amenTo any good man's wishes. The laboringe cloudsInsteade of vapours have exhald from eartheA blessing for me, and about this tyme(By the full revolution of my starres)Should rayne it down uppon me.
Bus. Tushe.
Did. Observe,First heare me, know the meanes and when y'ave dooneFall downe and worshypp. Thys same verye day,Nay thys most fortunate mynute, the emperoure,The great, th'unconquered mightieCharlimayne,Is marryed to the syster of my lordeTo your most fayre-eied aunte, rareTheodora.
[Florish. A crye within "God save Theodora the Empresse!"
You heare thys?
Buss. I wishe myne eares had to the pilloryePayd tribute rather then let in this sounde.UnfortunateOrlando! thy fayrest hopes,Like to a blaze of artifyciall fire,No sooner have a beinge but expyre.
Did. What! passyonate in rhyme? I must be taught To give attendance on the full-fedd guest![83] … … … … …
Bus. You may be dambdFor useing sorcerye upon the kynge.That naturell heate, which is the cause and nurseOf younge desyers, his pallsye hath shooke of,And all the able facultyes of manAre fled his frost of age to that extreameTheres not enough to cherrish a desyerLeft in his saplesse nerves.
Did. In this your worshyppGives my hopes illustratyon. Age must doateTo a Judgments dearth that may be cheated onYet that cheate rest unquestyond. Doe you heare?The kynge is beinge maryed to your aunteHathe bounde hys fortunes to my lord, and heWill, like a ryver that so long retaynesThe oceans bounty that at last it seemesTo be it selfe a sea, receyve and keepeThe comon treasure; and in such a floode,Whose thycknes would keepe up what naturullyeCovetts the center, can you hope Ile synke?
Bus. Hell take thy hopes and thee!
Did. But I would haveYou understand that I may rise agayneWithout the catchinge of a rotten boardeTo keepe bare life and mysserye togetherTo fyght eche other.
Bus. Furyes fryght thy soule!Is a good mans ill fate thy nourishment?NobleOrlando, what omynous fatell starreRuld thy nativitie that fire must beStrooke out of Ice to ruyne all thy hopes:This marriage is their grave.
Did. Sir, I may rayse A broken state by service.
Bus. Yes, of the devyllTo whom thou art a factor. Slave, 'tis thouThat hast undoone my father and increastHis evyll inclinatyons. I have seeneYour conference with witches, night-spell knaves,Connivynge mountebanks and the damned fryeOf cheating mathematicks. And is thisThe issue of your closse contryvances[84]?If in thys p[ro]myst throng of future illThere may be found a way to anye goodOf braveOrlandothe great palladyne,My constant industry shall tyer the dayAnd outwatche night but I will fynde it for hym;And yf to doe hym good—
Enter La Fue.
Fue. Where'sDidier?
Did. Here, thou contemptyble thynge that never werteSo free as to put on thyne owne ill hatt;Thou that hast worne thy selfe and a blewe coateTo equall thryddbareness and never hadstVertue inough to make thee [be] preferrdBefore aught but a cloak bagge,—what to me?
Fue. The wishe of poxe enough to make thee all One entire scabb. Dost thou abuse thy elders?
Did. I cry your reverence mercye, I confes You are more antique.
Fue. Antycke in thy face! My lord shall knowe.
Did. But pray thee let me fyrst Knowe what my lorde would have me knowe by thee.
Fue. I scorne to tell thee or to talke with thee;And yet a woulde speake with thee,—and yet I will not tell thee;Thou shalt shortlye knowe thou hadst bene better—I say no more; though my deserts be hyddMy adge is not, for I neare weare a hatt;And that shalbe ballast to my complaynteTo make it goe more steadye to thy ruyne.It shall, dost heare, it shall. [Exit Fue.
Did. Hence, chollerycke foole, Thy threats to me are like the kyngs desyer, As uneffectuall[85] as the gloawormes fyer.
Loude musique. Enter Charlimayne, Bishop Turpin,Ganelon, Richard, Theodora, Gabriella, and attendants.
Charl. This musyque is to[o] dull to mix it selfeWith the full Joy I tast. OGanelon,Teache me a meanes t'expresse the gratytudeI owe thy vertues for thys royall matche,Whereby me thynks my ice is tournd to fyer,My earthe to ayre; those twoe base elementsCan challendge nothinge in my composition,As thou andTheodoranow have made me:For whiche be thou our lorde greate Cunstable.
Did.—Observe.
Bus.—Matters to make me mourne eternallye.
Gan. Your bountye speaks you, sir, a god on earthe, For you rewarde a service that's so meane It scarce speaks dutye (for you are my emperoure)—
Charl. Tys thou hast made me greater then my name… … … … …How mysserablye so ere our nature maksUs thynke a happynes, was a greate burthen,But nowe tys all the heaven I wishe to knowe;For Tyme (whose ende like hys originallIs most inscrutable) hathe nowe payde backeThe sapp of fortie winters to theise veanes,Which he had borrowed to mayntayne hys courseFrom these late dead now manlye facultyes.Kysse me,Theodora. Gods, carouse your fyll,I envye not your nectar; from thys lyppPuerer Nepenthe flowes. Some tryumphes, lords!I challendge all of you at Barryers.
Bus. Alas, good man! A gawntletts wayght will presse him into cynders.
Char. I am so rapt with pleasure and delighteI scarce thynke I am mortall; all the Joys,Wherewith heavens goodnes can inryche a man,Not onlye greete but dwell upon my sence,And whyles I see thee cannot stray from thence,Most excellentTheodora.
The. Tys onlye your acceptance maks me so;For Butye's like a stone of unknowne worthe,The estymatyon maks it pretyous;For which the Jemes beholden to the owner.
Char. Did you ere heare a voyce more musycall?The ThracianOrpheus, whose admyred skyllIs sayd to have had power ore ravenous beastsTo make theym lay their naturall feircenes byWhen he but toucht his harpe; that on the floodsHad power above theire regent (the pale Moone)To make them tourne or stay their violent courseWhen he was pleasd to ravishe theym with sounds,Neare had abyllitie with all his arteTo matche the naturall musyque of thy voyce.And were I on the axeltree of heavenTo note the Zodiaks anuall chaunge and course,The Sunns bryghte progresse and the planetts motyons,To play with Luna or newe lampe the starres,To note Orion or the Pleiades,Or with the sunne guyld the Antipodes,—Yet all the glorye, in exchaunge for thee,Would be my torment and heavens crueltye.
Bus. Was ere man thus orejoyd with mans own curse!
Enter Reinaldo.
Char. Thou only arte happynes.
Rei. Not, greate Lord, for I Bringe newes that doth include—
Char. Cossan, your blame, And tys a dylligence of too muche pryde That interrupts myne admyratyon.
Rei. My newse when knowne will raze out that beleifeAnd be as wellcome as a gentyll callmeTo a longe daungerd seaman in a storme,Suche as up onAeneasstraglinge fleeteAtJuno'swill byAeoluswas raysdWhen in his flyght from horror he sawe moreThenTroyaffoarded; for the newese I bryngeIs vyctorie, which crownes the crownes of kynges.
Char. CossenReinaldo, if youle sytt and prayse The fayre eies of my fayre love, I will heare Tyll you be tyerd with talkinge.
Rei. What is this?Is this the voyce of mightieCharlimayne?Sir, from your worthye nephewe I am come,The ever feardOrlando, who inSpayneHath with hys owne fame mixt your happynesBy a blest vyctorye.
Char. We have no leasureTo heare, nor are we able to contayneAnother happynes, nor is theire other.Successe in warre is but a pleasynge dreameFrom whence a drume may fryght us. Here doth restMy happynes which cannot be exprest.
[Ex. Cha., The., Gab., and attendants.
Tur. PryncelyReinaldo, doe not let amaze Strugle within you; you but yet survay The out syde of our wonder.
Rich. Brother, 'tis more Then can be wrytten in a cronyckle.
Rei. But must not be without my reprehensyon. Come, I will followe hym: whenCharlesdothe flye From honor, where shall goodnes hope to lye?
[Exe. all but Gan. and Rich.
Gan. Stay, worthye frende, and let me playnlye knowe How you affect t[hys] humor in the kynge.
Rich. Faythe, generally as a good subject should,—Delighted with the joy hys kynge receyves(And which I hope and wish may styll contynewe),But in partycular—because the causeOf hys joy cannot chuse but worke to youEffecte worthye your vertues. For my old love,Tys nowe lodg'd in a desperatt memorye.
Gan. But dost not seeme a most grosse dott[age]?
[Rich] … … … … …Though certaynlie desyer's the onlye thyngeOf strengthe about hym, and that strength is hysWith a conceyt that putts desyers in act.
Gan. And is not that a dottage at the least?
Rich. I dare not taxe the actyon of a kynge By giveinge it an ill name in my thoughts.
Gan. Y'are modest, sir, nor I; but yet if IFelte not a straunger love within my selfeIn this my strength of memorye and yeares,Abyllities of bodye and of brayne,More doatinge on a man than he on her,A would not scape my censure.
Rich. I beleive(To which beleife a long experyenceOf youre knowne worthe most steddylie directs)That if suche an affectyon manadge you,Tys not the man or sexe that causes itBut the styll groweinge vertues that inhabyttThe object of your love.
Gan. Tys orrackle, most happye pryncelyeRichard,Thou youngest and thou fayrest braunch ofAimon;And thy still growing vertues have made theeThe object of that love. When first I sawe thee(Though but with a meare cursorye aspecte)My soule did prompt me that so fayre a formeCould not but be the myne of manye vertues.Then mysser-like I sought to ope the myneAnd fynde the treasure, whereuppon I wanneYour inmost frendshipp, which with joy attayndIn seekinge for a sparke I found a flame,Whose rychnes made me admyratyons slaveAnd staggerd me with wonder.
Rich. Good sweete lorde,Forbeare thy courtshypp, our acquayntance isToo oulde, & as I hope frendshypp too fyrmeTo be nowe semented.
Gan. True, my best freinde;And thoughe I wante arythmatycke to counteMy treasure in thee, pray thee give me leaveTo joy in my posession of suche blysseTo which all honours in ourFrauncecompairdWere as a rushe mongst manye myllions shared.
Rich. Sir, thoughe I knowe there is nothynge in meAble to give a flattery hope to thryveIn the most abject slave to it that courts,And therefore cannot doute it in your selfe,Yet I beseeche you talke of somethynge ellesOr I shall growe unmannerlye & leave you:Myne owne prayse is my torture.
Gan. Heaven forbyddYf I shoulde torture hym I love so muche,Beyond expression! And synce this offends theeIle speake of that shall please my noblestRycharde.
Rich. Your pleasure & your honorable ends Are bounds beyond which I have no delighte.
Gan. If from thys marydge there myght sprynge a sonne,Which is myne ende, my honors would knowe none,But like a ryver that receyves his nameOr fyrst oryginall from some mountayns foote,Begyns a syngle streame, but at last growesTo have no bounds but what it could oreflow—But tys impossyble.
Rich. Improbable; For snowe and fyer can hardlye generate.
Gan. But whyle the snowe lyes on a mountayns topp,Consumeinge with the heat which comfortts allExcepte it selfe, the fyer may be blowneInto a second flame.
Rich. I graunte you that—
Gan. Posytion and request; or elles I perishe.
Rich. What meanes myGanelon?
Gan. Faythe to be playneAnd not to wrong the love, which I have foundeEver in thee, with any further doute,My love would have thee call a kynge thy sonneAnd gett him of my sister. Startst thou backe?Come, I doe knowe thou lovest her with thy souleAnd has syght for her often. Now enjoy,And doe not stande amazd: if thou refuse,Then my hopes like the flower of flaxe receyveTheir byrthe and grave together; for by heavenTo be made monarke of the unyverseAnd lorde of all claspt in the seagods armes,I would not have her toucht unlesse by thee:And if the thoughts of men were scrutableTo man and mongst men might be knowne to me,The foole that should attempt her but in thoughte[Could]e better hand-bounde wrastell with the sea.… … … … …But yet my love doth offer her to thee,And tys rejected.
Rich. You mistake me, sweete:I am all yours and what you shall thynke fyttIle cease to questyon, yet my contyence callsIt a disloyall and a monstrous fact.
Gan. Tutt, a prosperous synne is nowe a vertuous acte; Let not that starte you.
Rich. I am confyrm'd, but yet the Emp[e]resse—
Gan. Why, knowe not I howe deare she valewes you,And but for thys hope would not live an hower.Come, her consent shall flye to meet your wishesAnd locke you in saftie. In the nexte roomeStay me a littill.—Now my projects goe [Exit Richard.Uprighte and steddye. Let me style my selfe(And proudlye too) the mynion of the fates.The emperoure knytts newe honors to my house,Whylst to my bloode I seeke to bynde hys crowneAnd cheate hys lawfull heyre; and synce the laweMakes all legitimate in wedlocke borne,By whom so ere begott, the way is evenUnto my future blysse and earthlye heaven.—And see howe luckily this fellow comes!Happynes courtts me.
Enter Didier.
Did. My most honoured lord.
Gan. ODidier, the famous nephewe untoCharles, The onlye heyre and hope of fruytfullFraunce, FamousOrlando, is returninge home.
Did. So tys given out.
Gan. But might there not be somethynge given the prynceTo stay hys journey? Ile be playne with thee,For thy knowne love is worthye all my trust:He is an envyous torrent interposdTwixte me and many honors,Didier,And since unpassable must be choakt with earthe.Thou understandst me?
Did. Yes, sir, a must dye.
Gan. And in his journey homewarde. A smale drameWill purdge hys soule away, & twilbe thoughteSome of the rebells in these frontyre townes,By him reducst to false obedyence,Have, in revendge o'the servytude whereinHys sworde hathe fyxte them, doone't; so not so muchAs bare suspytion ever will attache thee.
Did. I'm glad y'ave named me in't; I was afraydeI should have beene lefte out in that brave acte,Whereto my proper hate untoOrlandoAnd love to you entyce me equallye.
Gan. O by no meanes, whom should I trust but thee;Tys thou & I must make eche other happye.Repayre the with thys golde, & for thy paynesBe equall sharer in my present meanesAnd future blessyngs.
Did. No more, Sir; Ile dooe't. I speake it with a confydence whereby Ide have you say unto your selfe 'tys doone.'
Gan. Thanks, my most honestDidier.Other affayres of seryous consequenceCall me; the Empresse must be solicytedUnto an acte for which I'de loathe her butMy ends have gloryous aymes.
Did. Aboute them, Syr, and doute not thys. [Exit Ganelon.Yet methynks it were not fytt in polycieTo venture all in one pore shallowe boate,The sea of state goeinge so rough and hye.Factyons in courte are like to suyts in laweWhere goulde and grace keepe equytie in awe;And but thys maryadge rules the emperoure,Who shall protect me in so many waysLeading to severall and confused ends?I will keepe no dyrecte one but even wanderAs myne owne proper saftie shall direct me.And though I wishe my lorde may rayse his bloode,Yet that wishe should give way to myne owne good.
Enter La Busse, Gabriella and Bertha.
Bus. Save MounseireDidier!
Did. MounseirLa Busse, my lords most loved sonne, Your companye is fayre. [Exit Didier.
Gab. The fellowe mocks us.
Bus. Had a sayd good too, then you might have douted, But fayr's an epethyte you bothe may challenge.
Ber. And why not good?
Bus. A courtier might have spared itAnd as he is a courtier beene excusdThoughe it were false; for he whose tonge and harteRunne one selfe course shall seldome find the wayTo a preferment. Nowe the courte is growneAs strange a beast as the thronged multytude,Dyffers not from the rabble, onlye tysThe upper house.
Ber. Why will you be a lymbe Of such a beast?
Bus. Faythe, onlye for sporte sake.
Gab. I rather thynke to make it more deformd.
Buss. Be not so bytter, ladye. Howe can I,Though I shoulde onlye studye vanytie,Be seene amongst so manye that out-glosse meIn everye severall follye.
Ber. Yet littillRichard, Aimonsyoungest sonne, Is suche a man your envye cannot taxe hym.
Gab. Mallyce with all her poysons cannot wounde Hys faire deserved reputatyon.
Bus. Sytts the wynde there?
Gab. Yes, syr, and blowes me hence In quest of hym I doe so much affecte. [Ex. Gabriella.
Ber. Stay, Ile goe with you.
Bus. Oh, by no meanes, madam; Methynkes your longe attendance at the courte Should make you not so apt to spoyle good sporte.
Ber. Sdeath! sporte! pray let me goe.
Bus. Not yet, byVenus. You fyrst shall knowe my soule hath deeplye vowed My love and servyce to your excellent selfe.
Ber. Verye good sir,I knowe y'are sonne unto the Mynion.But yet I knowe your father loves you not,And thats good too.
Bus. If truthe at courte be good For any thynge, then, madam, you say true. For tys most true that I—
Ber. Pray let me goe.
Bus. Shunne not hys syghte that dothe adore your syghte.How fares the Empresse? Like to a bloweinge roseNypt with a colde frost, will she styll keepe inCyrckled with ice?
Ber. I knowe not nor I care not.
Bus. But you can guesse.—Or in the frosts Dyspighte Will she blowe out?
Ber. Sir, y'are unmannerlie To stay and question me: I must be gone.
Bus. Take my harte with you.
Ber. He whose harte and tonge Runne one selfe course shall seldome fynde the way To a preferrment.
Bus. Sfoote, doe you thynke your love Such a preferrment? nay then, fare you well.
Ber. Vyllanous man! [Ex. Bertha.
Bus. Well, now unto my father whom I knoweHates me but for my goodnes; and althougheI cannot blame the Empresse, yet on hymIle vent myne honest spleene, and he shall knoweVertue at porest hath yet one advocate,Though muche too meane to helpe her.—See, a comes.
Enter Ganelon.
Gan. The Empresse and youngeRichardare in league,Arme knytt and harte knytt with the fervencyeThat no joy can exceede. Heaven blesse the mixture!—But stay; whose thys? O my curyous sonne,What newse with you, Sir?
Bus. Sir, though your emynence may guyld your vyceAnd greatnes make your ills seeme gloryousTo some too farre beneathe you, that neare lookeInto the chynckes and crannyes of the state,Yet, Sir, with reverence, knowe you have doone illTo crosseOrlandosfayre successyonBy thys unequall maryadge.
Gan. Arte growne madd?Thoughe I neare knew thee muche opprest with witt,I did not thynke thee such a foe to senceTo speake with suche a daringe impudence.
Bus. Howe's that?
Gan. Thus and observe me. As you love the cubboardeWherein your calves brayns are lockt up for breakfast,Whenere agayne thou shalt but dare to playThe dogge and open thus when I am presentWithout my spetyall lycence and comand,Ile vexe thee so with punishment and shameThat life shalbe thy torment. Hence, thou slave,Of no more shyrtts, than soules, and they consistingeOf equall foulness! hence, I say! IgnoranceShall not excuse thee thus agayne offendinge.
Bus. Preposterous! I walke for want of spyrrytt.[Exit La Busse.
Gan. Pyttie of follye! wherefore shoulde thys boy,Thys thynge of too nyce contyence, nay my sonne,Troble hym selfe with any acte of myneAs if they helde proportion with hys state,Wytt or condytion? Such thyngs are swayd by chaunce:And naughts more arrogant than Ignorance.—But here comes he that hathe brayne to plottAnd spyrrytt to acte.
Enter Didier.
Howe is itDidier?
Did. As you comanded, Sir.
Gan. Hast doone it then?
Did. And without all suspytion?
Gan. Halfe my soule,Let me imbrace thee. All my cares and fearesThou hast dyspeyrct for ever; from hys deatheMy future honors take a glorious byrthe.
Enter La Fue.
Fue. Hees never from hym; nay I must begone;Past servyce is forgott. Doe you heare, my lorde?Beggars must be no chusers. I am one,The proverb proves it, an oulde serving man:At your choyse therefore be it, whether IOr that knave shall stay with you, for both must not;Your house (though lardge) cannot contayne us bothe.
Gan. Why, whatts the matter,Fue?
Fue. Matter of wronge.Full twoe and twentye severall liverye coatts,Made & composed all for severall yeares,Have I runne throughe in your most faythfull service.Oth scullerye I was three yeares before:So, blacke and blewe[86], I make account I've servedYour Lordshypp five and twentye.
Gan. What meanes thys?
Fue. My servyce notwithstandinge, thys proude JackeAbuses me in words I understand not;And therefore in playne tearmes if you keepe hymI am no longer for you.
Gan. Patyence, man:If thys be all Ile see it remedyed.He shalbe sorrye for the wronge thats pastAnd promyse thee to second it with other.
Fue. Shall he? why, let him then, and I wilbe content to dye in peace.
Did. I bothe repent and promyse no amends.
Fue. Well, that shall pacyfie, we will be frends And live in peace together.
Did. On condytion That hence you take no lycence to deprave My good indevours.
Fue. In my contyence He wrongs me now agayne.
Did. Nor on this growe Sawcie and insolent.
Fue. Hay da! can oughteProceeding from my gravitie to theeBe esteemd sawcynes? you heare, my lorde;Can fleshe and bloode induer thys? I doe knoweMy servyce is more pretyous then to beThus touzd and sullyed by hys envyous breathe;And though in pollycie I will not leaveYour lordshypps servyce, yet if polycieOr brayne of man may studdye a revendge,Thys wytt of myne thats seldome showne in vayneShall fashyon out a rare one.[Exit La Fue.
Gan. Syllye foole! Come,Didier; mynde not hys peeyvishe hate Ile make thee yet obscurd an envyed state.
[Exeunt.
Actus 2.
Enter Orlando, Reinaldo, Oliver, Souldiers, Attendants.
Orl. O that my cursse had power to wounde the starresThat with a more then envyous aspectThus racke me & my fortunes! marryed?I coulde allmost brable with destenyeFor giveinge thys curst maryadge holye forme.And suer it errd in't: tys no gordyon knottThat tyes suche a disparytie together.But what will not soothd prynces? theire hye bloodA flatterye drawes toth lees, and more corrupteThen a disease thats kyllinge. Nowe must I,Like to an Argosie sent rychlye fourthe,Furnisht with all that mighte oppose the windsAnd byde the furye of the sea-gods rage,Trusted with halfe the wealthe a kyngdome yeilds,Havinge, insteade of addinge to her store,Undoone her selfe and made a thousand pore;Meanlye retourninge without mast or helme,Cable or anchor, quyte unrygd, unmand,Shott throughe and throughe with artefyciall thunderAnd naturall terror of tempestuous stormes,Must (that had beene the wonder of the worldeAnd loved burthen of the wanton seas)Be nowe a subject fytt for all mens pyttiesAnd like to such, not cared for a jott,… … … … … must lye by & rott:And so must I.
Rei. His dottage maks hym thynkeHym selfe so happye in thys cursed matcheThat when the newse of your successe aryved(Thoughe cladd in laurell and fayrest victorie)He had no eare for't, all his powers beinge fylledWith a suppossed joy conceyvd in her.
Oli. He has not dealt likeCharlimaynet'exposeYou to the horror of a cyvill warre,And, whylst your loyaltye made glorious wayTo hys wisht ends of conquest, thus to crosseYour fayre successyon.
Orl. Twas a speedinge plottTo sende me intoSpayne, whylstGanelonTooke the ryght course; yet, if I had beene here,The envyous destenye that dothe attendeOn all my undertakings, would have madeMy best meanes uslesse to have hynderd it.For not the cooninge of slyeGanelon,Charlimayne'sdottage, nor her wytchinge eie(To whom I nowe must be obedyent)Can challendge any share in my disgrace;But myne owne fortune that did never smyleBut when it gave me a full cause to cursse.And were the way to my successyon freeAs when I lefte the courte, yet gaynst all senceAnd possybyllitie somethynge suer woulde spryngeFrom my meare fate to make another kynge:So, torrent-like, my fortune ruynes allMy rights of byrthe and nature.
Rei. You have doone ill To soothe hys adge unto thys vyolence.
Oli. With penytence tys confest, consyderinge Preventyon hathe quyte fledd us, & no way's Lefte eyther for revendge or remedye.
Orl. I am the verye foote-ball of the starres,Th'anottomye [sic] of fortune whom she dyssectsWith all the poysons and sharpe corrosyvesStylld in the lymbecke of damde pollycie.My starres, my starres!O that my breath could plucke theym from their sphearesSo with theire ruyns to conclude my feares.
Enter La Busse.
Rei. Smoother your passions, Sir: here comes his sonne—A propertie oth court, that least his owneIll manners should be noted thynks it fyttIn pollycie to scoffe at other mens.He will taxe all degrees and think that thatKeepes hym secure from all taxation.
Orl. Y'are deceyved; it is a noble gentylman And hated of his father for hys vertues.
Bus. Healthe and all blessings[87] wherewith heaven and earthe May comforte man, wayte on your excellence!
Orl. Although I know no mans good wyshe or prayrsCan ere be heard to my desyred good,I am not so voyde of humanitieBut I will thanke your love.
Rei. Pray, sir, what newse Hath the court lately been deliverd of?
Bus. Such as the gallimaufry that is foundIn her large wombe may promise: he that hasThe fayrest vertues weares the foulest shyrteAnd knows no shyfte for't: none but journeymen preistsInvay agaynst plurallytie of liveingsAnd they grow hoarse ithe cause, yet are withoutThe remedye of sugar candye for't.Offices are like huntinge breakfasts gottHurlye burlye, snatcht with like greedynes,I & allmost disjested too as soone.
Oli. I, but in sober sadness whatts done there?
Bus. Faythe, very littill, Sir, in sober sadnes,For there disorder hurryes perfect thyngsTo mere confussyon: nothing there hath formeBut that which spoyles all forme, & to be shorteVice only thrives and merryt starves in courte.
Rei. What of the maryadge of your noble aunte Our fayre eied royall empresse?
Bus. Trothe, I wonderd, Sir,You spoke of that no sooner, yet I hopeNone here are jealyous that I brought one sparkeTo kyndell that ill flame.
Orl. No, of my trothe, I know thee much too honest; but how fares The Empresse now, my dear exequetresse?
Bus. Sir, as a woman in her case may doe; Shee's broughte [to] bedd.
Rei. What, has she a chylde, then?
Bus. I, my Lord.
Orl. A Sonne!
Bus. Mys-fortune hath inspyrd you, Sir; tys true.
Orl. Nay when my fortune faylls me at a pynche I will thynke blasphemy a deede of merrytt. O harte, will nothing breake the?
Rei. Tis most straunge.
Orl. Straunge? Why, if she had been spaydAnd all mankynd made Euenucks, yet in spyghteMy ill fate would have gotten her with chylde—Of a son, too. Hencefourthe let no manThat hathe a projecte he dothe wishe to thryveEre let me knowe it. My mere knowledge in'tWould tourne the hope't successe to an eventThat would fryghte nature & make patyence brauleWith the most pleasinge objecte.
Bus. Sir, be at peace; Much may be found by observatyon.
Orl. Th'arte bothe unfriendlie & uncharytable.Thys observation thou advysest toWould ryvett so my thoughts uppon my fateThat I should be distrackt. I can observeNaughte but varyetye of mysseriesCrossynge my byrthe, my blood and best endevours.I neare did good for any but greatCharles,And the meare doing that hath still brought forthTo me some plague too heavye to be borne,But that I am reservd onlye to teachThe studyed envye of mallignant starrs.If fortune be blynde, as the poetts houlde,It is with studyinge myne afflictions;But, for her standing on a roullinge stone,Theire learninge faylls them, for she fixed standsAnd onlye against me.
Rei. Move hym no further;But if your observatyon can fynde outA coneinge in the carryadge of theise illsThat may be questioned, Ile thanke your love,And be your servant: pray be inquisitive.
Orl. Inquiseytive? for what? my miseryesRequyer no searche, they playnlye shewe themselves,And in theire greatnes crowne what made them greate.The power of Fortune, which by theym beinge crowndDoth tyrannize uppon me.
Enter Didier.
Did. Healthe attendThys honord presence! may your wellcome homeRetayne proportion with those worthye deedsWhereby y'ave yearn'd all wellcome.
Orl. What is he?
Did. Howe ere my dutye and best wishes shall Ever attend you, and those wishes be Putt into acte to doe you anye servyce.
Bus. Thart a grosse flatterer, and knowe there is More sympathye betwixte mere contraryes Then twixte thy words and wishes.
Did. Then your knowledgeHas no true ryghte doone to it, beinge so greateTo be so littill famed. I never heardeThat you ere did or durst knowe any thyngeBut dynner tyme & coronatyon day,The tylters collours & theire pages suytts,But to theire Empresas[88] you styll gave upAn Ignoramus.
Bus. Th'art a parasytte;Thou & thy fortunes wayte uppon my fatherAnd like an evyll aungell make hym doeThose fearful thyngs I tremble to delyver.Therefore the love which thou protestest hereCan be at best but fayn'd & beares more sheweOf treacherye then zeale.
Did. How say you by that?
Orl.Ganelon'sservant! Will it not suffyceThe mallyce of my starres to presse me downeWith a most pondrous wayghte of injuryesBut they must keepe me wakinge with the syghteO' th'authors on't, to myxe my sufferingsWith heate and anger? Syrha, howe dare youUpbrayd me with your presence? or doe you thynkeMy wrongs and fortune have made me so tameThat I am a fytt subject for your spleene,Your trencher envye & reverssyon rage?Or arte so greate an Infydell to douteMy mischeifes snayle-pacst that thou spurst on neweIn full carryere uppon me?
Did. I disclaymeGanelonsservyce other then to serve Your worthye ends, which is the onlye end Whertoe I ere seemd hys.
Bus. Monstrous deceytfull vyllayne!
Orl. Impossyble!I cannot be so happye, & if thouBeare but the least affectyon to my cause,Thy fortunes like thy trenchers wilbe chaungdTo a sordyd foulenes that will loathe thy nature.
Did. For that no matter, I darre fortunes worstIn ryghte of vertue; & if you'le be pleasedThys screane may be removed that keepes awayAll comfortable heate from everye manWhich he stands neare, Ile tell you thyngs that shallConfyrme you I am yours.
Orl. He shall not goe, Nor can I hope successe in any thynge (More then my sworde), & muche lesse be confyrmed.
Oli. Pray, sir, withdrawe.
Rei. Althoughe I thynke thys fellowe meanes no good We may dyscover & prevent hys ill: Pray leave us, sir.
Bus. I will; but yet beware That fellowe. [Exit La Busse.
Did. I fyrst desyreTo be beleived my love & utmost servyceAre vowed unto your greatnes, to which beleifeThe hazard of my life throughe all the daungersThat ever fryghted weake mortallytie,Shalbe an instygation. Fyrst, Sir, knoweThe empresse is departed.
Orl. Whyther! to hunt worsse fortunes then I suffer?
Did. Sir, she is deade, a fever shooke her bloode After her chyld bedd sycknes, & of it She dyed last mornynge.
Rei. Wonderful!! what newse of her younge sonne?
Did. It lyves & is a pryncelye littill one,Lewisthegentyllcalld, a hopefull infante.
Oli. But smale hope of the emperours righte to it.
Orl. Howe taks hys majestye the empresse deathe?
Did. Straunglye, beyond all presydents of greife.Being dead it seemes he loves her ten tymes moreThen ere he loved her liveinge (yet that loveOutwentt all dottage in th'extreamytie):He will not give her buryall, but in's armesCarryes her up & downe, courts, kysses, toys,Mournes when she maks no answere; often faynesTo understande her sylence; sweares that deatheCannot, nay darre not, hurte suche excellence.
Orl. Why, thys is absolute madnes! Where's byshoppTurpin? His reverence shoulde persuade hym.
Did. So he hathe, But tys in vayne: he heares naught but his passyon.
Orl. Why, styll thou heapest uppon me newe misfortunes.
Did. But will delyver comforte. For some prooffe Of myne integrytie, knowe I was hyerd ByGanelonto poyson you.
Rei. Whatts thys?
Did. To which performance I so soothd hys hopes That he beleives tys doone.
Orl. And so it had,But that my Fortune knewe my deathe woulde beToe greate a blessinge for me & removeThe object of her envye past her spleene.What wretchednes is thys! haveinge indeedeAll the worlds mysseryes that have a name,A new one out of pyttie must be foundeTo adde to infynitts. My heavy cursse,But that't would be a blessynge, shoulde rewarde thee;And for thy disobedyence to thy lordeIle torture thee, for I will wish thee well.
Did. Did ever mans preservatyon plauge [sic] hym thus? Wonder confounds me.
Rei. My most worthye cossen, Will you not take advantage of thys plott?
Orl. No; what advauntage? the emperour's eares are glewed Gaynst althyngs but hys passyons.
Did. Great Sir, no;The vyolence of hys passyon notwithstandinge,Havinge hys deathe-slayne mistres in hys armes,He heares all causes criminall as ifShe did but slumber by hym.
Oli. Tys an offerd meanes To bringe your foe in hatred with the emperour Revyve your hopes.
Orl. As cordyalls doe call backeA dyinge man from hys aproachynge peaceTo make h[im suffer] still the mysseryesOf hys allmost past sycknes. I reffuse it,And by my suffrynge nowe will shewe my selfeToo noble to complayne. I neare coulde fyndePleasure or ease in others punishment,Or if I were so base to take delighteIn the afflyctions of another manMy fate would guard me from't, for tys decreedThat onlye I of all mankynde shall neareBe master of a hope shall have successe:So all the opposytion I can makeWould onlye make my greives rydiculousAnd dyvorce pyttye from theym. Neare will I.[Ex. Orlando.
Did. Heres a straunge humor!
Oli. I, but let it not Deterre you from hys accusatyon.
Did. Ile justefye what I have sayd.
Rei. Doe so, And bothe myne entertaynment and rewarde Shall pay thy love and faythe.
[Ex. all but Didier.
Did. I doe not likeThys entertaynment at the second hande:It looks like barbers physicke, muddylie.Is thys a welcome worthye of the loveI have exprest? Had I tooke up hys haukeOr matcht a coatch-horse for hym suche a servyceHad deserved more respect then he gives me.I like a wise man have lefte certayne meanes,For hop't preferments: 'twas dyscreetlye dooneAnd ledd by vertue too. Thys vertue isThe scurvyest, harlottryest, undoeinge thyngeThat ever mixte with rysinge courtyers thoughts.But t'has a cursse. It is impossybleEre to gett intoGanelonagayne,Havinge not onlye not performd hys willBut tould hys purpose. And howe slyghte so ereThe earle ofAngereshoulds thys accusatyon,T'will be examynd: therefore I must throughe—But howe? thoughe it be true I cannot prove itBy other testymonie then myne owne;And that hys owne denyall will bereave meOf the beleife due to it. Yet will I stand too't styll:To deter vyce heaven gives a power to will.
Enter Ganelon.
Gan. Y'are well mett.
Did. I thanke you.
Gan. Th'art a vyllayne.
Did. It may be so; your lordshypp can defyne me If you would shewe your readinge or your practyse.
Gan.Orlandois retournd.
Did. Tys well.
Gan. It is;But it had beene better for your perjurd roaugshippYour harte had gordgd a hauke.
Did. Wa, ha ho, man!Your buzarde is a kynde of byrde of prey,Your lordship knowes too, that will feede on allUnable to outflye or to resist,But suche pursued her basenes and her sloatheAt once apeare. You understand me, sir?
Gan. Nowe a leane castrell[89] ceyze thee? Arte thou flesht? Must naught encounter you but byrds of rapyne?
Did. Good, good, you stretche a foule comparysson The best that I have hearde. But be assurd I am no scarabb for a castrells breakfast.
Gan. Why, you are growne a desperatt darringe rouge, A roaugue of noyse and clamor, are you not?
Did. And in dyspyghte of all your fearfull bells Of greatnes and aucthorytie, will tourne heade, Fly in thye bossome, and so stynge thee then That thou shalt curse thy beinge. [Exit Didier.
Gan. Thys is well,Exceedinge well: upbrayded by my slaveArmed by my trust agaynst me! I coulde noweWishe a stronge packthread had stytchd up my lipsWhen I made thys roague inmate of my breast.My seryous counsaylls and's owne servycesHe sells like goods at outcryes—"Who gives most?"Oh what dull devyll manadgd my weake braynesWhen first I trusted hym; Harte, I have madeMy counsaylls my foes weapons, wherewith heMay wound me deeplye. Suer he has revealdMy purposse and reward to poyson hym:So I bestryde a myne which to my ruyneWants but a sparke,—and farewell,Ganelon!Nowe the poxe take my harte for trustynge hym!What a brave noble creature were a man… … … … … see and so prevent… … … … … nay of his slave.