Enter Richard.
Ric. Health attend you!
Gan. O my dearest sweete,Thy presence makes thee master of thy wish;For in it rests my health and happynes.Howe does my best friend? faythe, you look most sadd,And we have bothe full cause. My syster's deatheHath, like the moone in opposytion,Put out the eie of heaven. But doth the emperourStyll keep her in hys armes.
Ric. Yes, styll and styll;Nay with such vyolence love seemes to groweAnd flourishe most in deathe.Mesantiuswrathe,That tyed dead to the livinge, seemes in hymThe joy of all man's wishes. Soothe he isAnything now but famousCharlymayne.
Gan. I cannot blame hym; tis a furye manCan neither tame nor conquer. But, dear frende,Is there no meanes to come to the dead queeneOut of the emperours presence?
Ric. Sir, theres none;He hath her evermore within hys armes,And when a sleepes your systerGabriellaOr the oulde BishoppTurpindoe attend her.
Gan. I, there you name a newe afflyctyon, That syster is an ulcer in my bloode: Howe doe you with her doatinge passyons?
Ric. Sleyght them beyond your wishes.
Gan. Thou dost amaze me with thy noble vertue,And thence I honor thee. As for that maydStill let her frantique love receyve repulseAnd crowne thy contynence; for though I wasContent the queene should stray, yet thys[90]I would not have to fall for chrystendome.
Ric. You neede not feare me: if not contynence, Yet myne owne will is armour strong enoughe.
Gan. I know't; and here she comes.
Enter Gabriella.
Gab. Brother, God save you!—0 my nobleRicharde, You make me oulde ithe mornynge of my yeares. Shall styll your winter nypp me?
Gan. What doe you meane?
Gab. T'express a love thats good and vertuous.
Gan. Fye, thys doth stayne your noble modestye.
Gab. To tell before you myne affectyon In publique I confes it would make me A subject for taxation.
Gan. Anywhere. Come, a must not love you.
Gab. Heavens forbydd!And I must tell you, brother, that I darre(And with no other then a syster's spleene)Justifye myne affectyon.
Gan. So, And what wants thys of impudence?
Gab. As much As you of charytie if your tonge bee A faithfull servant to your mynde.
Gan. Tys well: You would be whored (mayd), would you not?
Ric. Pray, Forbeare.
Gab. Your reprehensyon is unmannerlye,While Ile enduer no longer. Fayre Sir, knoweI will not have my true love circomscrybdWithin the lymits of your pollycie,Come, y'are wicked.
Gan. Repentance would doe well.
Gab. Tys a fytt matche for threescore and ten yearesAnd at that sober age I meane to wedd it.Yet knowe that my desyers are not so wildBut they stay here. Nor will I ever strayBeyond this most loved object.
Ric. Say not so:It never can retourne your recompence.Vertue, my soules dower, which is now contracktAnd richlie to be marryed unto heavenShall ever keepe me from affectyon:Beleve it, madam, I will never love.
Gab. Then have false hopes raysd me to th'topp of all Onlye to forme my ruyne in my fall.
Gan. Nay, no more fallinge. Come, my noble frende; And, ladye, cherishe not these whorishe longings.
[Exe. Gan. Rich.
Gab. Not cherrishe them? yes, blowe them into flamesCreate as the full desyers that warme my bloode.What, am I younge, fruytfull, and somewhat fayre,And shall my pleasures beare the servyle yoakeOf hys strycte rules and so chayne up my bloodIn manackles of ice? Fyrst Ile dareAll pangs make men thynke of mortallytie,But I will love hym; yes, I will love hym styllAnd so be servd both in my lust and will.
Enter Charlimayne with the queene in his armes,Turpin, La Busse.
Turp… … Sir, let me perswade … … Thys dottage ore the deade is monstrous, Nor suits youre greatnes nor your gravitie.
Char. No more;He that perswades me from thys loved embraceIs my most mortall enemye, and hereI sweare Ile hate hym to destructyon.O,Gabriella, come; thy syster sleepesA longe, longe slumber, but she is not deade;Goodnes can never perishe, and if soYet deathe shall not devyde us. Why, I haveNot full so many mynuts to survyveAs one pore breathe may reccon, and shall IFor that short space forgett her? No we'll stayAnd close our loves both in one monument.
Turp. Was never seene suche an affectyon!
Char. Come,Gabriella, let us sett her downe;And seate her easylie, doe not hurt my queene;The downie breathe that sweepes alongst the meads,Kissinge the gentyll flowers that sweeten hym,Are stormes and tempests to her tenderness:[They place the dead bodye in a chayre.No ayre shall blow uppon her. Happye soule!Indeede I dearelye love thee, for I seeThe rose and lyllie sprynginge in thy cheeksFresher than ever. Deathes imortal sytheDare not offend thy branches: O, thou arteA thynge beyond mortall corruptyon.
Buss.—What will a make of her?
Turp.—Even what his fancye pleases.
Char. If she be dead howe sweete a thynge is deathe,Howe riche, howe gloryous and unmatchable!And howe much follye is in fearfull man [Sitts by her.To flye from that which is so amyable!Deare, give me leave to touche thee and imprinteMy soule uppon theise rubyes. All the fameAnd garlands I have woone throughe Chrystendome,The conquests I have made ofFraunce, ofSpayne,OfIttalie, Hungarie, Germanie,Even to the uttmost east poynt, placd with theeAre toys of worthlesse valewe. Here's my crowne,And but for thys I were notCharlymayne.
Turp. Alas, tys she maks hym notCharlymayne!
Char. Comaund some musique. Everye man departe,
[Exe. Bus. and attend[ants]. Soft musique.
ButTurpinand my sister. Heavye sleepePresses me to her bossome; gentyll sweete,Let me not hurte thy goodnes, for my restShall but like softe ayre gentlye cover thee.[Sleepes on her bosome.
Turp. What, madam? is he salve a sleepe?
Gab. Most soundlye, Sir: sadnes from hys soule Hath charmd hys sence with slumber.
Turp. Then, if it please your goodnes to withdrawe And fytt hys hyhgnes chamber, I will watche And call you at hys wakynge.
Gab. Willinglye. [Ex. Gabriella.
Turp. I have not seene so stronge a fytt as thys,It is beyond all fevers; for thys feynde,Thys most mallygnant spyrritt called love,Raynes in him above wonder, nay aboveTh'accounte of learnynge or experyence.I've reade in younger studyes there are charmes,Spells and devysses to comand men's harts;That charracters and imadges and scrollesCan even bynd the soule to servytude.It may be that's wrought on the emperoure.I know the hate ofGanelonto beA myne of all deceytfull polycie,And thys affectyon thus unnaturall,Can but have such a father. Suer Ile trye,If I can fynde the carryage. Pardon me, deathe,That I thys once ryffell thy treasurye.Theres nothynge heare conceald but deathe and coldeAnd emptye sylence, no companyon.What, shall I then leave of? My harte says noe;Ile yet breake ope another cabanett.Nay, I must parte your lipps; the mouthe, they say,Harbors most oft weomen's corruptyons:You cannot byte me, madam. Ha, whats thys?A rynge!A very curyous rynge, a dayntye ringeHydd underneathe her tonge. Blesse me, fate!Somethynge depends uppon it: what it isI will aprove and be the treasurer.
Enter Gabriella.
Gab. Howe nowe, my Lorde? awaks the emperour?
[Char. stirrs.
Turp. I sawe him move even now: agayne he styrrs. Good sweete, excuse me: when a dothe awake I will retourne imedyatlye. [Exit Turp.
Gab. I will.
Char. Hey ho!Who waytts without? dothe nobodye attend?… … pleasure … … … … …Ha!Woman's attendaunce? in the name of chaungeWhen didCharlesuse such frayltie? Men at armesDid ever guarde me: am I now forsooke?
Enter Richard, La Busse and attendants.
O you are wellcome. Ha! what creature's thys?Deathe coopeld to my bossome, to my chayre?What traytor shewd thys embleme? Why my ageDid neare forgett mortallytie, nor hatheThe wantonst thought in prynces made me lookeBeyond the hower of deathe. Let me viewe her.
Rich.—Here's a chaunge; he wilbeCharlesagayne.
Bus.—Why, thys maks althyngs more myraculous.
Char. Tys the dead Empresse! In the name of healthe Who plact her bodye here?
Rich. Onlye your maiestye, From strengthe of whose imbrace not anye tonge Had power to drawe her.
Char. Gentyll coosse,Doe not take judgment from me: in my myndeWas never fyxte a frantycke passyon.But more of that hereafter: take it henceAnd let the ladyes guarde it tyll it beInterrd with publique sollempe obsequy.
[Attendants, La Busse and Gab. carie away the dead.
Where is Orlando my renowned nephewe?
Rich. Without, attendinge your hye pleasure.
Char. Good coosse, intreate hys presence that hys faceMay blesse an ould man's eie sight. O tys he [Exit Rich.Hathe brought toFraunceher wishes in suche wreathesOf uncompared conquests that it bendsWith weaknes of requyttall. Here he comes!
Enter Orlando, Reinaldo, Oliver, Richard and Didier,Attend[ants].
O my best souldier, wellcome! I growe youngeWith thynkinge of thy gloryes. Wellcome, coosse,Wellcome, renownedOliver, wellcome all!But thou, myne eagle, wellcome as my healthe!Th'ast brought me peace, the braunche of hapynes.
Orl. The good that I have doone, Sir, is without meAnd I partake not of it, but within meI bringe and beare more mysseryes then wouldUnpeople your whole kyngdome.
Char. Whats the matter?
Orl. Sir, to let passe somethynge without your powerNowe to be remedyed, I am persuaded(Thoughe I persuade my selfe to littill purposse)To tell you of a practyse gainst my lifeByGanelon.
Char. Call hym; you shall be hearde,You are to me toe pretyous to take wronge.Yet, nephewe, be advisd, for you doe knoweThat indyrect surmyses more abuseAnd in that strange abuse more deeplye woundeAn inocent brest then proves a guyltie one.
Orl. Sir, I best knowe howe muche abusses woundeAn inocent brest: myne keepes a registerWith corsives charactred on everye sydeOf the griefe drinkinge pap[er]. But I say,WereGanelonhere—
Enter Ganelon.
Gan. As he is, my lorde,To aunswere everye thynge your abusd nature,The mallyce of thys slave or of the world,Can charge me with. Speak then the uttermost.
Orl. I say you are a man that haveinge longePractysd agaynst myne honor in myne absenceAt last didst deale with thys just gentyllman(For so I must repute hym, though hys pyttieBe myne afflyction) to poyson me.
Gan. My emperour,If thys aspertyon may fynde out a wayThorrowe your easynes to wound myne honor,Justyce hathe left the earthe.
Char. What say you, Syr? ha!
Did. I say and sweare by all dyvinitieThat can rewarde or punyshe, tys most trueThat with a summe of goulde and further hopesOf future honors he did wynne my promysseTo poyson the greate Palladyne.
Char. Thys is dyrect.
Gan. A dyrect vyllanye!If suche proofes may prevayle gaynst any man,Any such slave, discarded for's badd life,May make hys former master forfayte hys;You may in ten days hange up all your noblesAnd yet have lawe for't. But if any man(Thys slave except), although hys synns would makeThe sunne put on a cloud to shame his syghteAnd the grasse wither with his loathed …,Will justefye thys accusatyon,Ile remayne destitute of all replye.
Char. Nephewe, what other proofe have you?
Orl. Your majestie sees all,And the thyrde parte of that product gaynst meOr gaynst another man (for anye ellse)Would be enoughe.
Rei. Why, in suche casses, where basse pollycie Works on the lives of prynces, God forbydd But one mans oathe should stand for testymonye.
Oli. Espetyallye where cyrcumstances leade Dyrectlye to the poynte he aymethe at. AllFrauncedothe knowe he hates the Palladyne.
Ric. In soothe I doe not thynke so. Envyes tonges Are sharpe and manye, and they ever cleave Most to'th oppressed, oft to'th inocent.
Rei. Doe not deceyve your selfe out of your love. Brother, tys knowne he is most treacherous.
Bus. WorthyReinaldo, carrye better thoughts: My father is your servant, and dothe love you.
Rei. Would a loved vertue as I knowe you doe, I then would honor hym. Uppon my life In thys he is most guyltye.
Char. Come, no more.There is some cyrcomstance but no due proofe,And from that grounde my nephewe shall perceyveHowe dearlye I doe pryze him.Ganelon,Hencefourthe you never more shall see the courte:Yare banysht thence. You have a cuntrye house,Let that receyve you: when you thence departeYour life is forfayte. Away!
Gan. I doe obay Your Majestye. [Exe. Gan., La Busse.
Orl. Is thys a punishment?
Rei. Tys a disgrace, best cossen.
Did. And noble bloode Hathe more sence of disgrace then wounds.
Orl. Hence, slave!By heaven a does rewarde hym for hys synne.Was ever man like me unfortunate?Not see the courte! why tys the greatest favorIn a kyngs guyfte, and had hys hyghnes pleasdT'have sent me to deathe we had bothe beene easd.
Enter Turpin.
Char. O my deare sweete! where has my best frend beene? My joy of life, my ages comforter! Indeede I've had a tedyous mysse of thee.
Tur. What meanes your majestie?
Char. I meane to live for ever on thy neckeAnd bathe thy bossome with my joyfull teares.O thou arte sweete and lovelye as the sprynge,Freshe as the mornynge on the blushinge rosseWhen the bright sonne dothe kysse it.
Orl. Ha, whats thys?
Tur. I am your pore weake servant, an oulde man, That have but onlye prayrs to pleasure you.
Char. Thou art all butye, spyces and perfume,A verye myne of imortallytie.Theise hayres are oth complexion of the skye,Not like the earthe blacke browne and sullyed.Thou hast no wrinckles: theise are carractersIn which are wrytt loves happiest hystorye.Indeede I needs must kysse theym, faythe I will.[Kisses Turpin.
Orl.—Wonder when wilt thou leave me? thys is straunge.
Rei.—Nay, farre above my readinge.
Orl.—Upon my life! The ould men will not ravyshe one another?
Tur. Deare Sir, forbeare; see howe theise prynces scorne Thys toe much wanton passyon.
Char. They are joysToe good for theym to wyttness. Come, my sweete;We will in private measure our delightsAnd fyll our wishes bryme full.F[r]aunceis thyne,And he is but disloyall dare repyne.
[Ex. Char., Turp.
Orl. This visyon I must followe; when Charles growes thus The whole worlde shaks: thys comett's omynous.
[Ex. all but Didier.
Did. I am a polyticke coxcombe: honestyeAnd contyence are sweete mystresses; though to speake trutheI neare usd eyther mearlye for it selfe.Hope, the last comforte of eche liveinge man,Has undoone me. What course shall I take now?I am worsse then a game; both syds have lost me.My contyence and my fortunes keepe me fyttFor anye ill. Successe may make all fayre;He that for naught can hope should naught dispayre.
[Exit.
Actus Tertius.
Enter Eldegrad and Gabriella.
[Eld.] … … … it is not possyble … … … … … The smoothe face of the wanton lovelyeRichardShould promise more true fortytude in love Then tourne a recreant to perswatyons.
Gab. Why, mother, you have seene the course of thyngs,The smale assurance and the certayne deathe,The meare deceytfull scope and shadowed ruynsThat are most conynglie knytt up in pleasures;And are you styll to learne or will you trustA lovelye face with all your good beleife?My dutye checks myne anger, or I should—
Eld. What should you?
Gab. Give your tast a bytternes.
Eld. I pray thee, doe; bytter thyngs expell poyson; See if my follyes may be purdgd a littill.
Gab. Spleene shall not taynte my goodnesSo muche as to account your errors follyes;But, I proteste, were you another woman,I should be bouldlye seryous and tell youThat all the wytts of chrystendome are spenteIn stryppinge the corrupted harte of smoothnes:And yet you thynke a smoothe perswadinge boyBeares all hys daunger in hys cheeke and eie!Shall weomen trust a sweete and courtlye faceWhen they themselves deceyve most by the face?Why serves our owne dissemblinge arte if weCannot suspect when others doe dissemble?
Eld. True, daughter; love is like the weassell that went into the meale-chamber; it comes in a littill chyncke no bygger then our eie syghte, but haveinge a whyle fedd on imagynatyon dreames sonnetts to the tune of syghes and heyhos; it growes plumpe and full of humor; it asks a crannye as bygg as a conye borrowe to gett out agayne.
Gab. And wherefore then should I trust in the face?Mother, tys true your sonne, my cruell brother,The toe much wise, toe subtyllGanelon,Onlye withdrawesRichardsaffectyon.Even to my selfe a swore a should not love me;And who that knowes hym, knowes he is not leddBy the charme of hys voyce onlye?
Eld. Trust me, wenche, Twas tyrannye to speake so; but in thys Where lyethe our preventyon?
Gab. Onlye thus:You must by all meanes styrre dissentyonTwixteRychardand my brother, tourne their lovesTo mortall hate and emulatyon;Which but effected,Richardsuer will loveBee't but alone to crosse hys enemye.
Eld. Content thy selfe, gyrle. There is not the malytious creature nowe liveinge, no, not a venemous and craftie stepdame, nor a tale-carr[y]inge, truthe-pervertinge gossypp cann make theire seedes of enmytie poyson the love of parentts, husbands, neighbours or good fellowshypp sooner or more effectuallye then I will crosse theire frendshypp. But to better purpose—
Gab. Peace, no more: here comes the aged byshopp The kyngs inamord darlinge.
Enter Turpin.
Tur. Best ladye, well encounterd: howe runns chaunce With your deare sonne, my good lordGanelon?
Eld. Better then envye wishes, gratyous sir.Lost from the courte he left behynde hym thereAll cares and all vexatyons: nowe he sleepes,Eats, drynks and laughes, and, but when he dothe sweate,Moves not hys hatt tyll bedd tyme; dothe not fawne,Nor croutche, nor crynge, nor startche his countenance;Is not tane up with other mens affayresBut onlye looks to's owne comodytie.
Tur. Hys chaunge was passynge happye then, it seemes.
Gab. Bothe for hymselfe and hys; for, greate sir, noweHe onlye wayts on hys partycullar,Seeks from a cuntrye comonwealth to rayseAll hys to cuntrye fortunes; which, they say,Is safest, surest, and least envyed.
Tur. Why, prettie Ladye, you'le not leave the courte?
Eld. Yes, gratyous lorde; I'me sent to bringe her thence.Our pore retyred famylie must planteTheire braunches in the broade ayre, not be plashd[91]Or propt agaynst the walls of pallaces.
Tur. I doe comend your tempers, but, madam, tysHys highnes pleasure, for some spetyall endeOnlye to hym reveald, that instantlyeYour sonne repayre to'th courte, which I intreateYou will imparte unto hym.
Eld. Most willinglie; Yet suer I knowe hys harte [is] settled there Which to the courte is a contrarye spheare.
[Ex. Eldegr. and Gab.
Tur. Howe prettylie theise weomen can dissemble!… … … … …O tys a foule and damned sorceryeAnd maks the best of wisdome and of men,Of fame and fortytude, more loosse then ayre,Foolishe as idyotts, basse as cowardysse.Why I am even rackt with complymentAnd torturde past all suffrance; age nor sexeHoulde difference in thys incantatyon.But I will trye it further, harke a comes;Nowe must I passe the pike of lunacye.
Enter Charlimayne, La Busse and Richard.
Char. Come, come, my dearest; wherefore doe you starveMy quycke desyers with your so cruell absence?I pray thee tender my declyninge age,Stande allways neare that I may never faynte;For thou inspyrst in me more strengthe and lifeThen mightie nature when she made me younge.
Tur. Sir, I have allways beene your humblest servante.
Char. O you dyssemble fynelye!
Tur. I protest, sir.
Char. Nay, then I may beleive you flatter me,But say thou dost and seeme to love me dearelye,For I confess, as freelye as I love,One littell sparke of thee outbuys my kyngdome;And when my kyngdomes gone pray what am I?A pore decrepyd mysserable thyngeThat needs no greater plauge then adge and wrinckles.
Tur. Indeed your passyon is toe vyolent. I doe adore you next to dietie [sic] And will lay downe my life for you to treade on.
Char. Oh[92] nowe religion teache me to beleiveAnother god, or I must forfayte heavenAnd worshypp what I see, thys happy creature.Nowe courtyers flatterye cannot keepe my senceFrom knowinge what I feele, for I am weake:Tys all my comfort nowe to thynke on theeWho bryngst my captive soule to libertie.Chuse then a fytt rewarde, examyne all,All my domynions and authoryties;Thynke what may please thee, make a full requestOr I shall growe a burthen to thy favors.
Tur. What shall I aske, that in your favours have All that I can desyer?
Char. Nay, aske me somethynge: Come, tell't in myne eare?
Bus. What thynke you, lorde? Has any favrytt all he can desyer.
Rich. Yes, and a be contented.
Bus.—Right, sir, thats the questyon, but can a favoryte be so easylie contented?
Rich.—Most easylie, being such a worthy reverend prellatt.
Bus.—Foote, man, let him be ten thousand preists[93] and a will styll wante somethynge. Give hym but tyme and a wadger with thee,Richard, he asks somewhat. See, see, the emperour instructs hym; a good oulde loveinge soule and he is a good ould love he has chossen. I doe not nowe blame hys doatinge on my sister.
Rich.—No more, no more, tys daungerous jestinge with edge toole[s], muche more with prynces.
Bus.—If prynces have edgtooles I graunte it; but does his grave majestie looke like a lorde of that mettall? Come, come, be not seveare; let us prate whylst they whysper.
Rich.—Is that good manners?
Bus.—Shall not we doe as the kynge does; manners give place to pollycie and I am suer greate formall outsyds thynke it an aspyringe pollycie to doe or seeme to doe as the kinge dothe.
Rich.—Come, thou art wanton!
Bus.—As the Bishopp is costyve in hys begging. Twere a myrackle should he aske nothynge. Let me see: does no bodye stande in his way to be removed? (thanks to heaven my father is shrunke allreadye) or does not somebodye stand toe farre of that a would draw nearer. Somewhat there must be.
Char. How now, cossen, what saysLa Busse?
Bus. Marrye, my lorde, I say if you should give half the libertye of begginge to a courtyer of myne acquayntance that you gave to the Byshopp, you would be beggd out of your whole kyngdome in a cople of mynuts.
Char. Like enough, for thy acquayntance are foule beggarlye companyons; yet would thy father had thy vertue.—But, sweete frend, Assure thy selfe th'ast fyxte my resolutyon As fyrme as destenye, and I will give All satisfactyon to the Palladyne.
Tur. It wilbe royall in you.
Enter Ganelon.
Char. Kysse me, sweete.—O you are wellcome; stand up. And howe does thys retyred life agree WithGanelon?
Gan. AsGanelonwith it,Most desolatlye, sir. I have induerdSubjection to my fate since last I sawe you;In all which haplesse bondage I have gaynd[Not one] howers comforte tyll twas dooblye yearndSynce fyrst I knewe what sleepe and wakinge menteI never slepte in quyett nor awaktBut with a hartye wishe to sleepe my last.Not a pore simple jest hathe made me smyleTyll I had payd the tribute of my caresOver and over. Fortune has opposdMy naturall blessings and my wishest ends;Those verye honors which my byrthright claymesHave cost me more vexatyon to preserveThan all the numerous tyttells of a kyngePurchasd with plauge and famyne; yet in allMy days of sorrowe I was styll to learneA suffrynge of that impyous accounteWhich nowe afflycts me.
Char. O you are conynge.
Tur. Yes, and may teach the worlde to counterfayte.
Enter Orlando, Reinaldo and Oliver.
But here comes the earle ofAngeres.
Char. Nephewe, y'are discontented and I woulde Give all rights to your honor, which did cause Me latelye thus to send for you.
Orl. Tys true,You sent unto me, sir, and I obaydAnd came: but then, Sir, what became of me?You sente me presentlye away forSpayne.Nay, never frowne, I doe remember thysAs well methynks as if it hapned nowe.
Char. Your memoryes toe blame; you doe mistake.
Orl. O that I could mistake or never thynkeUppon thys daylie terror to my sence.Sir, tys a thyng I labour to mystakeBut cannot, for my starrs will have it thus.
Char. You wronge your fortunes and convert theire good Into a stronge disease.
Orl. So pray you tourne me then into an hospytall,I have a straunge disease. But, gratyous Sir,Littill thought I, when I departed henceAnd conquerd you all Spayne, to tourne diseasd.
Char. Be patyent, and Ile undertake the cuer.
Orl. Oh I should shame your physsycke, though indeedeTys the kyngs evyll I am trobled with,But such a rare kyngs evyll that I feareMy chyldrens chyldren wilbe taynted with't.
Rei.—A touches hym most bouldlye.
Oli.—Even to the quycke of hys last maryadge.
Orl. Beleive't, my sycknes is like the diseaseWhich runns styll in a blood, nay more extreame,For frends and kyndred bothe must feele my cursse:But what good man can well escape a cursseWhen Emperours, that should be absolute,Will take advyse from everye shyftinge sycophant?
Gan. Mallyce and factyon could have sayd no more.
Orl. Are you then guyltie of advyse, my lorde?
Gan. Sir, if the kynge accuse me I submytt.
Char. I must accuse you bothe, but punnyshe one,You,Ganelon, I meane: there dothe belongeUnto your fault muche more then banishment.I heare discharge you of all offyces,Honors and tyttells or whatere exceedsThe slender name of a pore gentyllman.Besyds I fyne you out of your estateAt fortye thousand crownes, and never henceTo see the courte, but live thence banyshed.Nephewe, this may suffyce you; if't be lightIle lay more burthens on hym.—Come, best frende.
Orl. Sir, I desyer no mans miserye.
[Ex. Cha., Turp.
Gan. Then welcome once agayne my libertie!Nowe, my sweete frend, may I discourse with theeAnd utter my dystractyon; only noweCan I retayne thee fullye in my bossome.Before I was devyded in my selfe,The emperour and the state did clayme a parte;But all my frendshypp nowe is undisturbdAnd onlye thou shalt have what manye had,My best imployments and my whole desyers.
Rich. You are a juell fytter for the State,And I feare what will followe. Sure th'emperoure,Has loosend everye pearle about hys crowneIn loosinge you, the glorye of hys kingdome.
Gan. No, no, he shall complayne that wantinge me He wants his refudge, and my glorye then Shalbe to scorne hys favors whylst my thoughts Onlye take pleasure in a perfytt frende, Which is your selfe, that onlye … to me … … enoughe to caper … … …
Orl. What meanes he by theise frantycke sygnes of myrthe? CossenReinaldo, cossenOliver, Why does he growe thus guyddie?
Gan. What says the emperours nephewe? does he grudgeThat I should take a pore content in shame?Your envye will discredite you, my lorde.Gentyllmen, have you not hearde ofAesoppsdoggeThat once lay snarlinge in the oxes maunger?
Orl. Rei. Oli. What then?
Gan. He was an arrant peevyshe curre,Nothynge but so; and I protest syncerlyeI would have hangd that dogge (had he beene myne)Althoughe a lyonnesse had beene hys dame.
Orl. Your dogs comparysons a saucye foole.
Gan. Sir, I am just of your opynion I;For what extreame beast but a foolishe curreWould envye that which he hym selfe dispyses?Be not offended, Sir, thoughe symple ICan live in peace at home with hungrye leeksAnd never curse my planettes. I can leapeWith more actyvitie then yesterday.—Capers.Does thys offend you, Sir?
Orl. Exceedinglye.
Rei. Were you thus nymble ever from a boy?
Gan. No, in good faythe it taks me of the sodayne.
Oli. Your harte is lighter then it needs, I doute.
Gan. Yes, and your heade is lighter then your heeles.
Bus. It is the honor of hys gravitieNot to be shaken with rydiculous windsOf envye or of scandall. Good Sir, thynkeHis resolutyons nowe his champyons.
Gan. Syrha, no more; you shall goe home with meAnd learne to laughe at fortune; I have thereA worthye matche and vertuous wife for theeAnd she shall pyle up all your flatterye:The courte hath no use for it.—Sir, methoughtYou talkt of lightnes, did you not?
Orl. Yes, that your heade is lighter then your heeles.
Gan. It is, I thanke my starres; howe can it chuse,Beinge disburdend of so manye feares,So much attendance and so manye synnesBy losse of my late offyces? I am bounde(My contyence knowes it well) to blesse your lordshippIf you or others moved the emperourTo my displaceinge. I am nowe unloadedOf all the wayghtie cares that did oppresse me,And shall I not discover what I am.A nymble and a newe borne quyet man. [Capers.]—Does thys offend you?
Enter Turpin.
Tur. Where's lordeRichard?
Rich. Here, reverend Sir.
Tur. Hys majestie comands you uppon payneOf life and your aleagance that from henceYou never more conversse withGanelonEyther by letter, speeche or complyment.No not so much as see hym; and withallYou must imediatlye attend his hyghnes.
Rich. I am hys servant. [Ex. Tur., Rich.
Gan. Tyll nowe I neare felt thunder, I am strooke To deathe with mans soft languadge. Come away: Tyll nowe I neare saw trulye a sadd day.
[Ex. Can., La Busse.
Orl. Wherefore did the angrye emperour Degrade thys merrye lorde? To pleasure me, Did he not, cossen?
Rei. Yes, to satisfye The wronge he did in plottinge of your deathe.
Orl. He did so, righte, but tys as fruytlesse all As catchynge of the moone: tys past mans power To take away my cursse of destenye.
Oli. Tys that opynion multyplyes your cursse.
Orl. Had any man but such a slave as ILook't to have tryumphd in hys base dejectionAnd he should have beene glutted with hys fortunes,Whylst I and all the projects I can makeCannot (with fortunes leave) gett a good dreame.
Rei. Doe not so blame your fortunes, worthye cossen: You have in many actyons prosperd well.
Orl. Good, doe not studye how to flatter me; I am in althyngs most unfortunate. Witnes my fyrst love toAngellica, … … … my cursse … … … My manye shypwracks, my halfe combattings, Charmes and inchauntments or whatever ells Can breake the harte of resolutyon.
Rei. What say you to your conquests?
Orl. Tut, in thosseFortune did never medle: honor thereServed in her person, not by substytute.Instead of which pore blessinge not a dayHathe hapned synce without some mysserye.Wheres now my hope of byrthrighte, where allFraunce?Drownd in the cradle of a chamber groome.And now, just now, resolveinge to aflycteThat myserable lorde, he doth dispyseMe & hys shame, because in me it lyes.By heaven I will release hym!
Rei. Nothinge so: Pray leave thys angrye moode and followe me; Ile add a torment to hys mysserye.
[Exe.
Enter Eudon, Eldegrade, Bertha & Gabrielle.
Eud. Ile sooner shrynke back when my lifes assaultedThen when my promyse shalbe claymd (good madam).I promysd to your lorde thatBerthahere,My daughter, should be marryed to hys sonne,And Ile perform't; for onlye to that endeI've brought her nowe.
Eld. And, Sir, tis noblye doone;I knowe the matche is more desyred by hymThen the kyngs favors, which at thys tyme heIs laboringe to recover, but's retourneI knowe wilbe most sodayne.
Eud. Weele attend it.
Gab. Hey hoe.
Ber. Why syghes thou, frende?
Gab. Not at your joys but myne afflyctyons.Your in a good way,Bertha, ryde spurrd on,May come unto your journey: I must tyre,Theres not a swytche or prycke to quycken me.
Ber. Yes, when youngeRychardhunts your purlue ground. Come, I doe know you will not chaunge your ryder.
Gab. Not if a would fall to hys exercyse.
Ber. Th'art styll thy selfe (all madnes).—But no more; Here comes your brother.
Enter Ganelon, La Busse.
Eud. Healthe to my noble lorde!
Gan. You wishe me my worst enemye, yet, Sir, Tys wellcome since you wishe it. O I am At thys tyme nothynge but extreame disgrace.
Eud. Shake you for that? Why, noble lorde, you knoweDisgrace is ever like the greate assayWhich turnes imperfytt mettalls into fumeAnd shewes pure gould to have an absolute valeweBecause it styll remayns unchaungableDisgrace can never scarre a good mans sence,Tys an undaunted harte shoes Innocence:Shame in a guyltie man (like wounds & scratchesIn a corrupted fleshe) may ranckell deepe,Good mens dishonors heale before they weepe.
Gan. Pray thee, nobleEudon, save thy selfe, And come not neare me; I am pestilent.
Eud. I doe not feare infection.
Gan. I knowe tharte noble & a man of warre,One that hathe feard no mortall wound so mucheAs to be recond fearfull; but the cause,The cause of my dull ruyne must affryghte youYou have not flynte enoughe to arme your souleAgaynst compassyon; & that kylls a souldior.Let me have roame to breathe at lardge my woesAnd talke alone, least the proceedinge ayreThat easeth me beget in you a payne.Leave me, pray leave me: my rude vyolenceWill halfe distract your spyrrytts, my sadd speecheLike such a noyse as drownds all other noyseWill so afflyct your thoughts & cares on meThat all your care besyde must be neglected.My tyme of patyence is expyrd; pray leave me.
Eld. Ithe name of wonder, sir, what dothe afflyct you.
Eud. You boare your banyshment most brave tyll nowe.
Gan. I did, & could as quyetlye endureTo be exposd uppon the publique scaffoldTo all myne enemyes contempt, but noweI'me more then banysht, all my honors lost,My wealthe, my places everye one the kyngs;I hardlye am a pryvate gentyllman.And more then thys, my onlye dearest frend,MyRichard, I must never see agayne.
Gab.—Excellent newse! hould, there Ile honor thee.
Eud. Why, all thys is a tryfell; suche a blastAs should not move a weake reede. Come, I loveYour selfe and not your fortunes: pray forgett em.See, I have brought my daughter, and desyerThe matche betwixt us may be consumate.
Gan. O you are noble that can pyttie scorne! And werte not for my frends losse all the rest I should loosse like my shadowe.
Eld. I, and hym, When I have toulde you myne intelligence. Come, hees not halfe so good as you imagine.
Gan. Goe, y'are a woman, and that styll implyes Can be malytious.—But are you then resolvd To match with myne ill fortunes?
Eud. Sir, I am.
Gan. What says fayreBertha?
Ber. That my free will dothe bynde My love to his comandment.
Gan. Then take her, boy; we wilbe hencefourthe frends, And howsoever crosses come & goe Ile leave thee cloathes inowe for winter tyme.
Bus. Sir, I am bound to you & to my mistress,And will so arme my servyce with delighteThat, madam, you shall counte thys maryadge yoakeThe onlye lyst of pleasure.
Ber. Thats my hope: Bate me the pleasure, and, beleive it, Sir, I shall crye out oth bargayne.
Bus. Feare me not.
Gan. Come, we will have thys maryage sollempnyzd,In which I meane to feighte with agonyeAnd shoe the worlde I can cast honors ofMore easlye then my garments. Wisdome & thoughtMost precious ever when tys dearest bought.
[Exe. all but Gab.
Gab. Suer thys should be the day ofValentyneWhen everye byrd dothe coople, onlye IPore forlorne turtle, haveinge lost my mate,Must dye on a bare braunche. Wytt defend me!Youthe & my pleasures will not suffer it.I've here contryved a letter to my frendeIn myne ill brothers name. It may workeSomethynge to gayne my wishes; at the worstIt cannot make me more then I am accurst.And heres my messenger.—
Enter La Fue.
Howe nowe MounseirFue?Whyther gost thou in suche a sweatinge passyon?
Fue. O, Madam, sweatynge is goode for the itche, and the rascallDidierhaveing playd the roague with my lord ist possyble but I should itche to be about hys eares when I see the knaves countenance? Therefore to avoyde troble I affect sweatinge.
Gab. Why, thou dost not see hym nor art thou licklye.
Fue. O by all meanes I cannot mysse the devyll. Why, I am goeing to the courte, Madam, & the knave wilbe in everye corner,DidierI meane, by all meanes; so that if I doe not sweate I shall scratche the skynne from myne elbowes.
Gab. Then to further your sweatinge take paynes with thys letter; tell nobleRichard, the sonne ofAimon, your master sente it, but doe not tell your master I imployd you. Take this rewarde and deale wiselye.
Fue. As wisely as my blewe coate will suffer me.
[Exe.
Act 4.
Enter Richard readinge a letter.
Rich. [Read] Myne enemyes have labord much, but my worst afflyctyon is thy lamented absence which may endanger us alyke. There is no means to prevent all evyls but the injoyinge of my sister Gabriella: therefore force in thy selfe an affectyon. She may otherwise growe discontent and trooble us with her mallyce. Therefore preserve thy selfe and me together, who am thy best on earthe: Ganelon.
Thys letter sente me by my dearest frendeLike spells and witchcraft dothe amaze my brayne.He urdges me to love where a dothe knoweI can by no meanes fancye; yet tys so,Our safties doe compell it, & to thatI must of force bowe, teachinge my harde harteTo seme most softe when tys most hard[e]ned.
Enter Turpin.
Tur. Where is pryncelyeRichard?
Ric. Here, reverend lorde.
Tur. The kynge comands your presence, O deare Sir, I am orejoyd in your most brave advauncments. Why, you are now the fayrest stare[94] inFraunce.
Rich. I doe not understand your reverence.
Tur. The emperour will make my meanyng playne. … … … day Cunstable ofFraunce, CountyePoyteirs, marquysse ofSallun, And grand le seignior of the ordnance.
Ric. Theise are the dignities of nobleGanelon!
Tur. But these shall all beRichards.
Ric. Heaven forbydd! I will not weare the garments of my frende.
Tur. O doe not say so; they are forfayted roabs And never did become hys policie.
Ric. Good Sir, be charytable.
Tur. Indeede I am, But thys dothe least concerne me. Sir, I knowe The emperoure expects you.
Enter La Fue.
Ric. I will attend hym.—O y'are happylie mett.My urgent busynes maks my languadge shorte:Comend me to thy master, give hym thys, [Gives letters and money.Thys to the fayrestGabrielle; thysYour selfe may drynke at your best leasure. [Ex. Richard.
Fue. Why, so thys goulde has made my choller as colde as snowe watter. I had thought to have whysteld hym a braule[95] for makinge me daunce attendance. Waytinge on courtyers is like knocking at greate mens gatts in dynner tyme: well may a man make a noyse but hunger & hard fare keepes the porter deafe styll. Tys scurvie passinge scurvye in good sadnes.
Tur. Now, MounseirLa Fue, you are of the retyred familye.
Fue. Tyerd famylie? No, we are not tyerd, yet we may be wearye, and yet he that spurrs me for a tyerd jade I may chaunce kycke hym in the dark.
Tur. Come, your anger mistaks: I said retyred.
Fue. I hate words I understand not: be that eyther tyers or retyers me may chaunce cursse his journey.
Tur. Styll so angrye? di[d]st never take physsycke?
Fue. P[er]a[dve]nter I have, p[er]a[dve]nter I have not.
Tur. By all meanes doe; choller will kyll thee ells. But to my purposse: heares gould, comend me to thy master and give him thys token from me. [Gives the ringe. You see howe thynges runne; hys frend has all hys honors.
Fue. And you had talkd thus before y'ad never tyerd me.
Tur. Stay, goe not yet, here comes the emperoure.
Fue. Mas, Ile have a syghte on hym.
Enter Charlimayne, Richard, Didier.
Char. Doe not perswade me; cossen, you shall weare The honors I have given; what wasGanelonsOnlye belongs toRychard, he shall weare theym.
Rich. But without ease or comforte.—Good my lorde,You have a power in hys hyghnes loveBeyond power to interprett: pray you beggeHys grace will ease thys burthen.
Char. Nor he nor any creature on the earthe Hath power in me beyond the rule of wisdome.
Tur. Not nowe, I knowe; that charme is altered. —Sweete lorde, I darre not lymytt kings affectyons. You have no honors but you merrytt theym.
Char. Ha!Wonder, howe dost thou houlde me! noble sence,Doe not forsake my reason. Good sweete lords,What excellent thynge is that, that, that, that thyngeThat is beyond discryption? knowe you hym?
Fue.—Hath spyed me and comends me: I may mounte.
Tur. Tys a dyspysed groome, the drudge ofGanelon.
Char. Tys the best forme of man that ere I sawe. Let me admyre hym.
Tur.—The ringe dothe hould hys vertue everye where, In weomen, men & monsters.
Rich.—Whence growes thys? Madnes to it is wisdome.
Char. Why, tys a bodye made by symetreeAnd knytt together with more arte & careThen mathematycks cyrckles.DurersrulesAre perfytted in hym. Why, theirs a faceFigurd with all proportyons! browe & eie,Rounde cheeke & lypp, a nose emperyall,And everye feature ells of excellence!
Fue. Alas I am but a grosse servyngman, yet vertue will sparkell.
Char. Why, theres a hande that aunswers to hys foote!
Fue. I & a true one toe, or bourne it ells.
Char. A legge and necke of one cyrcompherence,A waste that is no hygher then hys thye,And all parts ells of stronge proportyon.I am inchaunted with thys vyssyon.
Did.—In hells name what behould's hys majestie To doate uppon thys rascall!
Fue. It was a scurvye thynge in nature that she did not tourne mans eies inwarde. Why, had I seene as much as the emperoure I myghte have been a monarke by thys time. I will growe proude.
Char. O thou the onlye sweetnes of my soule,Give me but leave to touche thee, let my hand(Chast loves most bashful messenger) presume[To stro]ake theise flowers that in thy lovelie [chee]kesFlouryshe like somer garlands. In soothe my souleLoves thee beyond relatyon; for thee I doateAnd dye in thyne affectyon. Come, Ile makeThee greater then allFraunce, above the peres,The proudest he that breathes shall thynke hym blestTo do thee servyce, and esteeme it heavenTo be thyne ape in imytatyon.
Fue. Nowe must I be coy by all meanes.—Trulye for myne owne parte I must love by dyscretyon, and discretyon tells me I ought not to love an oulde man, for ould men must needs be ingratfull.
Char. Why, deare sweete?
Fue. Because they can never live to rewarde benefytts.
Tur.—Bytter knave.
Char. O doe not feare; my bountye shall exceedeThe power of thyne askynge; thou shalt treadeUppon the heads of prynces. Bowe, you lords,And fall before thys saynte I reverence.
Tur. Rich. Did. Honors to hym the emperor doth honor!
Fue. Aryse, my good subjects; onlye for that roauge there the first acte of my chronickle shalbe hys hanginge.
Did. O be not angrye with your humble servante: I ever did adore you,
Fue. Yes like the meales that thou hast devourd halfe chewd for greedynes. But revendge comes nowe gallopinge.
Char. Who hathe displeasd my dearest? name hys name, The verye breathe shall blast hym; onlye, sweete, Love me & have thy wishes.
Fue. Well, I am contented to love you; and why? For nothing but because you are an oulde man.
Char. Why, tys the onlye tye of faythfulines:Age is the onlye object of the harte,And by's experyence onlye hathe aspyrdToth heyght of all perfectyon.
Fue. True, for I'll stande too't an oulde man is able to see more, doe more, & comand more then any young man in Chrystendome.
Char. Prove it, my sweete; thou arte myne advocate.
Fue. Why, a sees more, through spectackles which make everye thynge apeare bygger than it is; does more, for a never lights from hys horse but hees readye to pull the sadle after hym; and for comandment he may call twentye tymes to hys servant ere he have hys will once performed.
Rich.—Sfoote, the knave dothe abuse hys hyghnes groslye.
Tur.—Tut, not at all when't cannot be dyserned.
Char. Why, I doe nowe doate on thyne excellence. Thys witts unparaleld.
Did.—True, except a man searche the Idyotts hospytall.
Char. Thou never shalt goe from me.
Fue. O yes, by all meanes. Shall my master say I ranne away like a rascall? No, you shall give me leave to take my leave. That ceremonye performd, I'm yours tyll doomes day.
Char. I cannot live without thee.
Fue. Ile not stay a day at furthest.
Char. I darre denye thee nothynge. Kysse & goe: Thynke how I languyshe for thee.
Fue. And I will condole in recyprocall kyndnes.
Char. Bishopp, attend my dearest.
Tur. Greate Sir, I was toe impudent even noweTo trooble you with my token; good Sir, pleaseTo give it me agayne: a meaner manShall serve my humble messadge.
Fue. Bishopp, I doe voutsafe it; theres thy ringe. [Gives him the ringe.
Tur.—And you agayne a basse most scurvye thynge.
[Exe. Turp., Fue.
Enter La Busse.
Char. Howe nowe,La Busse? What newse fromGanelon?
Bus. Suche as can come from sorrowe: he is allWretchednes and mysfortune, and in meSpeaks to your sacred goodnes to be pleasdVoutsafe to call your fayre dove to your fyst(Mercye I meane) that may abate the stroakeOf your sharpe eagle justyce, and you willBe wrytt the best of prynces.
Char. Come, no more: Your fathers sentence is irrevocable.
Bus. Yet, gratyous Sir, sende hym hys honors backe And for those fewe pore howers he hathe to breathe Let hym injoy those deare companyons.
Char. You are the good sonne of an evyll manAnd I comend your vertue, but thys suyteIs past all restytution: to thys prynceI've given all your father governed.
Rich. Which, royall sir?
Char. Cossen, no more; I know your modesty. … … … your languadge; hees my foe That next solycytts me forGanelon.
Bus. O doe not make me, sir, be impyous,For shoulde your breathe crushe me to attomyes,Yet whylst my memorye can call hym fatherI must invocke you for hym.
Char. Which to preventTake my last resolutyon, & from itSwearve not in thyne alleagance: when thou shaltMeete me uppon a way was never usdBy horse nor man, and thou thy selfe dost rydeOn neyther horsse, mare, asse, & yet thy beastAn usuall thynge for burthen, thou thy selfeNeyther uncloathd nor naked, & shalt bryngeThy greatest frend & greatest enemyeCoopld for thy companyons; then I voweTo doe thy father honor, but tyll thenMy mallyce hangs about hym.—Come, coossen, attend us.
[Exe. Char., Rich.
Bus. Then dye, poreGanelon. When I shall meeteThe kynge on no hye way, when I shall rydeUppon no beast & yet a beast of burthen,Be neyther nakt nor cloathed, in my handeMy greatest frende & greatest enemye;And but then get his favor. There is no sphynxeThat can absolve thys ryddell: well, tys decreedIle breake my brayne but Ile performe the deede.
Did. Sir, would it were in me to helpe your fortune.
Bus. It was in you to bringe us to thys fortune.But I am charmd from anger: onlye thusMy father badd me tell you that he hatheNot many howers to live, & dothe desyerTo parte in peace with all men, even with youWhom he hathe nowe forgiven hartylie;And if you please to vissytt him you mayFynde love without captitulatyon [sic].
Did. Sir, Ile attend hym. [Ex. La Busse.Yet I've heard a taleOf a feirce snake that wounded by a swayneRememberd it for twentye yeares togetherAnd at the last revendgd it; so may he.I, but another tale tells of an asseWhich haveinge throwne hys cruell ryder wenteIn pyttie to the surgeon, who recurdThe sycklie man & reconcyld the asse.Why may notGanelonbe like the asseAnd thys fayre messadge like the curynge surgeon?Ile trye it; synceOrlandois unsuer,TysGanelonfrom whence may come my cure.
[Ex. Didier.
Enter Ganelon, Eldegrad & Gabriella.
Gan. Good mother, syster, deare spyrrytts, doe not haunte me: I will not from eternytie beleive ThatRichardis unfaythfull.
Eld. No, runne on,Swallowe thy shames like full bytts tyll they choake youAnd make the people prophesye that youShalbe undoone by your falseGanimede.
Gan. A poxe uppon the people! Would you have Me to depend uppon theire orackles?
Gab. Depend on your owne goodnes; doe not trustA traytor in your bossome.Richard, they sayHathe begd your honor and your offyces:Hes counte ofPoyteers, marquysse ofSaluca.
Eld. Cunstable & master of the ordnance.
Gan. It cannot be nor will I credyt it.
Eld. Then perishe in your dullnes. Nay, sir, more; It was hys earnest suyt to the emperoure To be dyvorst your presence: I can prove it.
Gab. And I that he by secret charmes hathe sought To make spoyle of myne honor, but in vayne Doe I complayne where theres no profyttinge.
Fue. In the way of ordynarye curtesye I doe salute you, & notwithstandinge my greatnes grace you to give you thys, &, ladye, you thys. [Gives letters.
Gan. Why, howe nowe? what motyons thys? Is the knave falne out with hys five sences.
Fue.Ganelon, no, but in love with my knowne vertues.—Hould, theres your yarde [gives hys coate] & a halfe of somers wearynge. Frends we mett, frends we parte: if you please me I may prayse you, if you seeke me you may fynd me, a loves littill that loves longe; and so I leave you to the tuytion.
Gan. Heyday, the knaves lunatycke! syrha sott … … … … …
[Fue.] … … Tys daungerous for your shynns; take heede of my[schief]. Favorytts are not without their steccados, imbrocados & pun[to]-reversos[96]. No more but so: you have no honor, no offyce, littill land, lesse money, least wytt. Y'are a pore man & I pyttie you. When next you see me tys in the emperours bossome.
[Ex. La Fue.
Gan. Whats thys? scornd of my drudge, mockt & abusd? Foote! I will throwe my dager after hym.
Eld. But thys is nothynge to the heape of scornes Will flowe on you hereafter. What says your letter?
Gan. Ile tell you presentlye.
Eld. What a madd tyrant is mans stronge beleife!Makinge hym hunte hys proper myschiefe fourthe,Takinge delight in desperatyon.O theres no foe to our credulytie.
Gan. O mother, yes;Aimonsyoungest sonneRichardsa slave above credulytie. Why, alls confyrmd here underneathe hys hande; A dothe not blussh to write to me a hathe All honors that I challendge; good sweet, looke, [Eldegrad reads. Read & recorde a vyllayne. What speaks youres?
Gab. No lesse than I imagynd, fearfull seidge Agaynst my name & honor. [Ganelon reads.
Eld.—So, it taks;Thys polytycke trycke, wenche, hathe set up the walleOf stronge partytyon twixt theym. Hence theire lovesShall never meete agayne.
Gan. O monstrous vyllayne, wouldst thou make her whore?I tell you, shallowe braynd unfaythfull hynde,Th'adst better have kystJunoin a cloudeAnd beene the dadd to Centaurs.
Eld. Save your wrathe: Tys fytt that nowe your wisdome governe you.
Gan. Mother, it shall; I am not yet past all Recoverye.
Enter La Busse.
Nowe, sir, what newes at courte?
Bus. Strange & unwholsome; you are still in fallinge; Alls given your frend to be your enemye.
Gan. I knowe the full relatyon. You did not seeke By basse ways my repryvall?
Bus. God forbydd! I spoake but what myght suyte your noblenes.