Gan. What aunswere made the emperoure?
Bus. That when I shallMeete hym uppon a way was never usdeBy horse nor man, & I myselfe to rydeNeyther on horse, mare, asse, & yet the beastAn usuall thynge for burthen, & withallCome neyther nakd nor cloathed, & doe bringeMy greatest frend & greatest enemye,You then shall have hys favor, not before.
Gan. A myght in one worde playnlye have sayd "never" And saved much cyrcomstance. What saydRichard?
Bus. Faythe, seemd to speake, but utterd nothynge.
Elde. Why that exprest hym bravelye.
Gan. A thynks me fallinge & avoyds my swindgeLeast I should fall on hym, nor helps me forwardeTo dryve away the feare of douted ruyne.Even thus doe beasts avoyde the shaken treeAnd browze uppon the twygs that gave them shelter.Myce be more sotyable; they keepe the houseTyll everye roome be fyerd about theire eares,But frends will vanyshe at reporte of daunger.Where shall I fyxe my trust? My woes are noweBeyond my synns, yet Ile nor bend nor bowe.
[Exeunt.
Enter Orlando, Reinaldo, Oliver.
Orl. Pray, thee, good coosse, perswade not my beleife;I cannot stoope[97] the harte ofGanelon.My crosse unhappye fortune hathe decreedA never shalbe conquerd; any ells,Should a but vowe to conquer 50 worlds,I would beleive a myght doo't: onlye IShall never master a dejected slave.
Rei. Indeede tys but your passyon so perswads you.
Oli. Be not fantastyque; that which we perswadeHathe bothe an eassye and a certayne way,Nor can it yeild to you a syngle joyeBut muche redoobled sweetnes. And behouldHere comes the newe made marquesse.
Enter Richard.
Good sweete lorde,Give my free speche suer passadge.… … … … …
0l. Foote! thys newe pyle of honor walks as if A would knocke patts with heaven.
Rich. Tys not unlike Your owne true pryde dothe make you speculous.
Rei. Tys farre shorte of youre sweete harteGanelons.
Rich. Sir, hees a noble gentyllman.
Oli. A Baboone, A verye windye caske of emptynes.
Rich. I wonder y'are so impudent. My frendeHath vertues lefte: if you had eyther shameOr charytie you would accuse your lybells.But as the ravens which inArabialive,Haveinge flowne all the feylde of spyces ore,Seaze on a stynkinge carkasse, so doe youSwiftlye leape over a most plentyous valeOf good examples which graceGanelonAnd fasten on the scandall which was formdBy a lewde treacherous knave to gett rewarde.
Oli. I give your aplycatyon the broade lye.
Rich. And tys thy last foule languadge. [Offer to Drawe.
Orl. Hould! who drawes must be myne enemye.
Rich. I'm easlye chydd from tumulte, but, deare Sir, Tell me in pryvatt howe you dare maynteyne it. [Whisper.
Enter alofte[98] Ganelon.
Gan.—Yonder a stands consultinge with my foes.Perhapps thys present mynute he revealesMy systers whoredome, or to take awayAll feare of my revendge he now contryvesThat my sadd deathe may fynishe my disgrace.Myne eies are dazeld, but it is no wonder,For in that glassye fellowe I dyserneThe true reflectyon of my fate & feares.Tys he, tys he; there wants but a good crossbowe[99]To levell at hys harte nowe. I beganA littill synce to chide my rashe beleifeAnd so was readye to tourne foole agayne;But I am nowe deliverd & hencefourthe,If wisdome or occassyon doe me righte,I will determine never to mystake.Heres a full proofe of what my mother spake.
Oli. As I respect myne honor I will meete you.
Rei. Are you agreed?
Oli. Yes, sir.
Orl. Away and shape our purposse.
[Ex. all but Richard.
Rich. Tys put to tryall; but I doe suspecteTheire whysprynge plotts. Thys equall hazard mayShadowe the meanynge of some certayne danger,The rather synceReinaldoseconds it.I must seeGanelon& speake theise douts:This quarrell most concerns hym, for the wrongeAnd capytall abuse toucht onlye hym.I gave a constant promyse never moreTo vyssytt hym without the emperours leave,And yet I will adventure. He may guesseAt secrett workings & confyrme my feare.Thys nighte I will adventure, & obayAs he shall fashyion me to meete or stay.
[Ex.
Actus 5.
Enter Eldegrade & Didier.
Eld. What, have you vyssyted my greived sonne?
Did. Madam, I have.
Eld. And you are reconcyld? you see hys harteIs made of meltinge waxe & not of marble.Faythe, twas a harde parte; you have brought us lowe,Lowe as the earthe we treade on, but Ile ceasseFurther reitteratyon: synce hees pleasdTo burye all, I wilbe patyent;You knowe I ever lovd you & you haveDoone me most worthye, honest offyces.
Did. And many more will dedycatt unto you;My lorde & I am reconcyld at fullAnd have disburdend all our greivances.I doe confes I was bewytcht with fateBut will redeeme myne error; synce I knoweHe loves me nowe more then he did before,I will deserv't so bravely you shall callAnd sweare I am a noble instrument.
Eld. You trust hys protestatyons then?
Did. Madam, or ells I were an Infidell.
[Eld.] … … … … …And I could chyde my love that pytties you.He dothe dissemble with you; you are lost.Of myne owne knowlege he hathe layd suche bayttsYou cannot live twoe howers. Goe where you will,He hathe a plott that haunts you. If you canFynde for your selfe any preventyon,Use it with quycke indevor; for I knoweThe thunder speaks that presentlye will splytt you.
Did. You doe amaze me.
Eld. And like the chaesd Roe stand in that amazeTyll the hounds catche you. What I speakeIs to prevent your present tragedyeAnd to blott murder from myGanelon.Be wise. [Ex. Eldegrad.
Did. Am I then noosd! will styll my villanous wyttsBetray me to mysfortune, am I lymed!What shall I doe? flight will not nowe avayle me.I knowe hys projects like hys mallyce runnsTo everye place of hoped securytie.I have't: thys key, which I have choycelye kepte(Longe synce by me most fynelye counterfaytt)Enters hys chambers & hys cabanettAnd everye place retyrd. I am resolvde;Thoughe I had thousand ways to scape besyde,Yet I will stay onlye to murther hym.Within hys lodginge will I hyde me safe,And when sleepe lulls hym—farwellGanelon!He shall not outlive mydnyght: here Ile lye,And thoughe I followe nexte thys lorde shall dye.[Hydes hym.
Enter Ganelon.
Gan. My plotts are layd most certayne & no fatteCan interposse betwixte theym:DidierdyesAnd so shallRicharde. O the wearye thoughtsThat keepe a daylie senate in my braynes,Repeat unto me what I loathe to heare,A frends disloyaltye. Be wysser youThat undertake the greate & hallowed leaugeOf frendlye comforte. Scoole your ryotous bloodeAnd teache your fancyes Wisdome; be not drawneWith suche a frayle unproffytable thyngeAs face or person when you chusse a frende;Th'are all deceytfull. Would my funerall ryttsWere as I wishe provyded, to dispeirseA warnynge by my horryble abuse,And I would dye to morrowe. I lamentThat such another pyttied foole as IShould be amongst the liveinge.—Harke! who knocks?[Richard knocks.Aunswere, what are you?
Rich. Open to your frende.
Gan. O my starrs, tys he! can myschiefe thus Come flyinge to my bossome?—Sir, I come To open twoe dores, thys & thy false bossome. [Stabbs hym.
Rich. O y'ave slayne me! tell me, cruell Sir, Why you have doone thys that myne inocent soule May teache repentance to you— [Dies.
Gan. Speake it out.What, not a worde? dumbe with a littill blowe?You are growne statlye, are you? tys even so:You have the trycke of mightie men in courteTo speake at leasure & pretend imployment.Well, take your tyme; tys not materyallWhether you speake the resydue behyndeNowe or at doomes day. If thy comon senceBe not yet parted from thee, understandeI doe not cursse[100] thee dyinge, because onceI loved thee dearlye; & collect by thatThere is no devyll in me nor in hellThat could have flesht me to thys violent deathe,Hadst thou beene false to all the worlde but me.—But he is nowe past thynkinge on for that,And were he buryed all were perfytted.
[Didier stepps out.
Did. What will you say if I become the sexton?
Gan. That after that thou mayst hang thy selfe ithe bellropps. —What makst thou heare?
Did. I will assuer you, Sir, No legge to your wise lordshypp for my life, Thyngs standinge as they doe.
Gan. Verye good, Sir, Y'are wondrous merry.
Did. Can you blame me, Sir, When I may treade upon myne enemye? I am your condemd creature, I am lost.
Gan. … … … … … Howe camst thou hyther?
Did. Why, looke you, Sir, by thys, [Shoes the key.Thys that Ive kepte as a stronge cordyallAgaynst your vyllanyes. Nay, behould it well,For as I live tys counterfayte.
Gan. What a leaden-skulld slave he maks me.— Why, art thou doutfull of me? faythe I love thee.
Did. Yes, as the devyll does freirs holye water.Come, I doe knowe your practyse gaynst my life,And ment my selfe t'have easd myne injuryes;But nowe thys act hathe given you to the laweAnd saved me from all daunger.
Gan. What! that IHave practysd gaynst thee! tys most damned false.I doe protest I love thee trulye, fullye.Come, let us joyne; my contyence says thou didstBut what was good & noble.
Did. Nay, by's lighte,I make no suyte fort, tys at your free choyce.If I but chaunce to toule hys passinge bellAnd give the parryshe notyce who is dead,You know what tends the rumor.
Gan. Come, no more;I faythe I love thee dearelye, trust uppon't;And to abandon feare on eyther parte,Give the dead carcasse lodginge in the ground:We bothe are safe & thys newe frendshypp sounde.
Did. Once more Ile trust you.Come, then, my burthen, no, my wellcome taske.Howe prosperous villanye keepes all in awe:We are saved by that which glutts bothe deathe & lawe.
[Exe. with the dead.
Enter Oliver.
Oli. The hower is past, the place & cyrcomstanceAnd all the formes of manhood(?) are expyrd,And yet youngeRichardcomes not. Tys most straunge:He is as valyent as is victorye,And dare uppon a roughe say [sea?] hye as heavenCourt all amazed daunger. Nowe to fayleIs past all revelatyon: suer as deatheOur whole plott is reveeld.
Enter Reinaldo.
Rei. Howe nowe, cossen? suer the hower is past? Yet no newse of my brother: as I live The youth is valyent, feare deters hym not.
Oli. Suer as deathe, our plott is all disclosd.And that there was no meanynge in the feighte,But onlye to withdrawe him from hys frendOn whom he doats toe dearlye.
Rei. Suer tys so,And it will vexe the noble palladyneAbove the heyghte of madnes; nay, beleiv'tT'will chaunge opynion to a constant faytheOf hys extreame mysfortunes. See a comes.
Enter Orlando.
Orl. Howe now, my lords? howe speede your noble plotts?What, have you woone youngeRichardfrom hys frend?Tell me whose eloquence hathe doone the deedeAnd I will honor hym.
Oli. He hathe forborne th'incounter, and in that Hathe drownd us in amazement: we suppose Our plotts discoverd.
Orl. No more, keepe backe the rest,For I can read misfortunes in your browes.Vengeance consume theise projects! they are basse,And bassnes ever more doth second theym;The noble youthe smyle[s] at our follyes, nay,Scornes the base languadge that you uttered,Which is by thys tyme with the emperoure.O twas a speedinge way to doe us shame!
Rei. Take truce with passyon: I dare bouldlye sweare There is some other mysterye.
Oli. At worstIle make it for our purposse every wayAnd even kill the soule ofGanelon.With talkinge of the cowardyse, so that youHoulde patyence for a mynute.
Orl. Patyence!Preache it to cynicks or greene sycknes gyrlesThat have not blood enough to make a blusheOr forme an acte might cause one. I have longeLike to a reelinge pynetree shooke the eartheThat I was rooted in, but nowe must fallAnd be no longer the fatts tennys ball.
Rei. Come be more temperd, you shall see from thysSprynge pleasure that you wishe for.OlyverShall instantlye upbrayd falseGanelonWithRychardsmuche unworthynes.
Oli. Thats decreedFor in such tearms I meane to sett hym fourtheAs shall even burst hys gall with agonye:Nay, it shall make hym never darre t'apeareWhere men resorte, or knowe ought but hys feare.
Orl. You have lardge promysses, but acts as slowe As dyalls hands that are not seene to goe.
[Exeunt.
Enter Didier with a letter.
Did. My cares & feares are past, butGanelonsThys letter woulde revyve if t'were reveald,Nay begett newe ones to hym of suche wayghteThat he must synke beneathe theym. Thys I founde(Mongst other thyngs) in haplesseRichardspockettWhen I interrd hym, subscribd byGanelon,Whereby's owne hand would leade hym to the blockeShould I discover it; for heres contayndThe kyngs abuse &Gabriellaswhoreinge.But I am nowe beforehand: to hym selfeIle give thys letter; so begett[101] in hymA fyrme beleife of myne integrytieWhich nowe goes upryghte, does not halte betweenePreferment & disgrace; for, come what will,I am allGanelons& wilbe styll.
Enter Ganelon.
And see, he comes. My Lord—
Gan. ODydier, Resolve me where & howe thou hast disposd The most false bodye of my falsest frende.
Did. The ravenous earthe, that eatts what it hathe fedd, Hathe swallowd it.
Gan. But where? what peice of eartheCouldst thou fynde badd enough to hyde hys bones.If in some flowrye meade th'ast hym interrdThe poyson of hys synns will choake the sprynge,And, if thou hast not layd hym deepe enoughe,Corrupt the ayre & cause a generall plauge.
Did. Bothe those are, Sir, prevented by the dytche, Whose deepe banks seeme to be halfe bottomlesse, Where he is layd a rottinge.
Gan. Without all helpe! counsayle in thys were daungerous.
Did. Sir, I was fryer & clarke & all my selfe; None mournd but nyghte, nor funerall tapers bore But erringe starres.
Gan. And they did erre indeed To shewe their lights at hys curst funerall. Did not a dog bewray thee?
Did. Baw, waw, waw! Sir, troble not your selfeWith any doute oth' secrecye was usdIn actinge your comand. And, Sir, becauseI will not have it rest within my powerAt anye tyme to wronge or to traduceYour honour by a probable suspytion,Receyve thys letter which atts buryallI founde in's pockett. Sir, it might concerne you,[Give the letter & Ganelon reads.And deeplye toe, if it should be reveald.—It calls up all hys bloode into hys faceAnd muche dystempers hym.
Gan. Deathe! I am lost in treason: my fordgd handHathe whored my liveinge syster & displaysAll my basse plotts agaynst the emperoure.By heaven tys false, fordgd, false as heresye!
Did. How! a fordgd hand?
Gan. Yes,Didier. When was it dated, trow?Torment! synce my restraynt of libertie!Good gentyll patyence manadge me a whyle,Let me collect. CertaynlyeRychardsharteCoulde not but doubte thys charrackter, & inThe strengthe of doute he came to me last nyghteTo be resolvd; or ells why should he beareSuche daunger in hys pockett? Admyttinge thys,What followes then? Why, if that were the endeOf's vysytatyon, then it needs must followeThat thys prevayld not with hym. And what then?Why, then my syster, as all weomen ells,Seeinge her selfe neglected in her lust,Thought any ill way to obtayne it just.
Did. A strange presumptyon.
Gan. Yet a lyttill further.It is resolvd that my systers onlye endeWas to enjoyRychardunlawfullye:Howe might a fallinge out twyxt hym & meAssyst the ende (for such a thynge she causd)?How?What a dull slave am I! why twas as mucheAs the untyinge of hys codpeyce poynte,Almost therem in re! for whyle he stoodeConstant to my dyrectyons all was well,But, those abandond, then,—harte! I am madd:I pray thee,Diddier, helpe me to cursseMe & my rashnes, that so curbd my reasonI would not heare hym speake but put hym strayghtTo everlastynge sylence.
Did. No, my lorde, Letts cursse the lust of woman.
Gan. Well rememberd.
Did. And yet there is a heavye one prepard To meete them where they act it in the darke.
Gan. True,Didier, there is so, and from that May penytence want power to rescue theym.
Did. Be there a dearthe of arte to helpe complexion, And for theym many housses of correctyon.
Gan. And if it be possyble o let the Bedle Not with theire money but hys owne whypp medle, And lashe theym soundlye.
Did. No, thats not so good: May all theire soundnes tourne toth poxes foode.
Gan. May constables to cadges[102] styll comend theym And theire knowne foes, age & ill cloathes attend theym.
Did. May they want skyll to banyshe theire breathes stynke,And onlye Barbers potyons be their drynke.May theire sore wast theire lynnen into lynteFor medlinge with other stones then flynte.
Gan. And to conclude thys hartylie breathd cursse; Theire lives beinge monstrous, let theire ends be worsse.
Did. Amen.
Enter Gabriella.
Gab. Amen to what?
Did. Faythe, madam, a was prayinge for hys syster.
Gan. O you are wellcome.—Worthye frend, withdrawe.— [Exit Didier. Nowe my rare pollytycke syster, what will please you?
Gab. My rare ingenyous brother, why doe you aske?
Gan. Ile tell thee, woman, & observe it well,Thou shalt remayne the porest wretche alyve,The most forsaken of delight & pleasureThat ever breathd a myserable life,If I may knowe what pleasses you. BewareAnd answere wiselye: you are leaveinge noweAll that hathe tyckld your insatyatt bloode,When you resolve my questyon: I will stryppYour sweete contents of to the naked souleBefore you parte. Doe you laughe? by heaven I will.
Gab. What brave exployts youle doe uppon the sodayne!
Gan. If you account theym so tys well, tys well.
Gab. Fye, fye, what moves you to thys froward wellcome?
Gan. Calst it allreadye frowarde? shallowe foole,I should salute thee with my daggers poynteAnd never make thys parley; but I'me kynde,And youle confes it when you reade that letter.You knowe the charackter & the whole scopeEre you peruse one worde, I make no questyon.But reade it, doe, that whyle you seeme to reedeYou may make readye for another worlde.Why doe you studye? flatter not your selfeWith hope of an excusse.
Gab. You are not madd!
Gan. Yes, foorsoothe,I will confes my selfe emptye of sence,Dealinge with suche a wyttie sparke as you.Theres no comparysson: a sparke, sayd I?I meant a bonefyer made of wytt & lust;One nourryshes another. Have you doone?Does any thynge you reade allay your coldnes.
Gab. You thynke thys letter myne?
Gan. I doe indeede,And will with horror to thy wanton thoughtsMake thee confes it, that thy soule beinge easdMay fly away the sooner.
Gab. What you—
Gan. Fond woman, doe not trust me, there is deathe And undyssembld ruyne in my words. Make your prayrs quycklye.
Gab. I protest unto you, As I have contyence & a soule to save—
Gan. That's a fantastycke oathe; proceede, proceede.
Gab. I did not wryte thys letter nor have seeneRichardsynce it was wrytten: what was doone He & my mother wrought it.
Gan. Shall I beleive you? are you vertuous?
Gab. Examyne but the ende & then adjudge me.
Gan. Then my suspytyon proves a false conceyte,And I am wondrous glad to have it soBecause it proves you honest. I am noweAgayne resolvd thatRichardwas a vyllayne,And therefore am I gladd agayne, becauseHe hathe what he deservd & has no more.
Gab. He did deserve your seryous contempt And is rewarded with it.
Gan. And with deathe.
Gab. Ha! oh is he murderd then?
Gan. Does that amaze you?Yes I have murderd hym & it becomesThe gloryous parte of conquerynge my selfe,To say hereafter, when I would relateA storye worth attentyon, that thys hande,Thys constant ryght hand, did deliver meIn spyghte of dottage & my naturall pittye.
Gab. O you are falne into the bloodyest cryme That ever tyrant threatned.
Gan. Idle feare.
Gab. Come, y'are a vyllayne & most bloodye slave,One that your spotted synns make odyous,ForRychardwas all good & vertuous.Dispayre nowe maks me honest & Ile speakeTruthe with true testymonye, for here it comes.
Enter Eldegrade.
We twoe contryved & wrytt these charracters,By Heaven we did; twas onlye we that spreadeThe poyson of debate & stryfe betwyxt you.On us, base man, tourne thy most bloodye edge,For thou hast slayne the noblest inocent.
Gan. Thyne owne invockt cursse ceaze thee,
[He runns at Gab., and Elde. stepps between?, & he kills both.
Gab. Thys should have ceazd me sooner; let me dye. Thy pardon,Richard: love thats too vyolent Is evermore with some straunge myscheifs spentt. [Dies.
Eld. Foule desperatyon ceaze thee, & whats worsse Dye with thy mothers last breathd heavye cursse. [Dyes.
Gan. They have left a darknes so extreame behyndeI cannot fynde a prayre to blesse theire soules.See here then, polytycke creature, subtyll man,Here see thy myscheife. Irreligious foole,That makst it contyence onlye when thou leavestSynns of preferment unaccomplyshed,Thou that repynst agaynst thy starrs & luckeWhen heaven prevents the bassnes of thy gayne;Littill thynkst thou wherefore thy gaynes will serve,Nor wherefore thy close pollycie should fayleTyll thou forsakst it, & then, wretched clay,Thou fyndst a horsse & dogge thy betters: theyDye unperplext with sence of dyinge, thouSeest what thy sence abhorrs thy falts allowe.I feele thee comeinge, my distracted chaunge,Like an ill-favord hangman: pray thee strike,Aproatche & doe thyne offyce.
Enter Oliver.What arte thou?
OliOne that will prove youRychardis a cowarde.
Gan. Good darringe tonge, be not toe desperatt. He was your deare frend, was he not?
OliYes, had he not beene pretyous unto you, But hys muche faythe to you did make me hate hym, And he had felt it had he darrd th'incounter.
Gan. Pray, no more, & worthy Sir, be bouldeTo say here stands the most afflycted souleThat ever felt the mysseryes of byrthe.Make me beleive my plaugs are infynettThat I may so desyer to leave my flesheAnd be deliverd from theym. Wherefore, looke you:It is my mother & my systers deade,I was theire murtherer; goe tell the worlde:That paper will give satisfactyon.
[Oliver taks the letter & reads.
Enter Didier.
O you are wellcome; are you an offycer?The captayne of the guard, I thynke. Come on:Be not affrayd, arest me, Ile submytt.Nor doe reproatche my vallor; I have darrdAs much as he that durst affront the gods,But greife hathe staynd me.
Did. What meane you, Sir? Why I amDidier.
Gan. That buryedRichard? Oh,Didier,I was a barbarous wretche in kyllinge hym.Digg up his bodye, brynge it hyther, goe:Hys wounds will fall a bleedinge & the syghteWill soften my conjealed bloode, for noweMe thynks I am not passyonate. But stay,Let all sweete rest preserve hym: I will thynkeHowe reelinge in the anguyshe of hys woundsI would not heare hym when a was aboutTo teache repentance, and that onlye thoughtShall melt me into cynders. I am likeThe needye spendthryfte nowe, that an inforcstTo make my wants knowne where I must not hopeTo gett releife. Releife? tys a vague hopeAnd I will banyshe the conceyte. Come hyther,Looke uppon thys & wonder yet a littillIt was my handyworke, yet nothynge neareThe synne of kyllingeRicharde.
Oli. Have you then slayne the noblest worthyeRichard?
Gan. Yes, by the false illussyons of theise twoe.
Oli. A guarde within there!
[Enter a guard & apprehends Ganelon & Didier.
Gan. Fayth, it will not neede,I knowe my ende of journey. For hys deatheI murderd theise: thys temporyzinge knaveBuryed him last nyght; all I can aleadgeAgaynst hym is concealment of the murther.
Did. Tys come about: twas allways in my mynde Nothynge should hange me, beinge naught by kynde.
Oli. Bringe theym away. Treason so greate as thys Was never seene synce man had power to wishe.
[Exe. with the dead Bodyes.
Enter Charlimayne, Turpin, Eudon & Attendants.
Char. What pageants thys that on the fallowd lands Crosses me everye way? I cannot goe But styll he meets me full jumpe.
Tur. Beleve me, Sir.I have not seen an antycke more disguysed.A gallopps ore the newe plowde lands as fastAs twere a comon hye way, yet no speecheCan make hym to forsake theym.
Eud. Nay, whats more,The beast he rydds on is not usuall,Tys neyther horsse nor asse, and yet a beastNymble & fytt for burthen.
Char.Eudon, goeBydd hym dismounte & as he loves hys lifePresentlye come before us. I will knowe [Ex. Eudon.The ende of thys straunge purposse. Suer there mustSome secrett hange uppon it! thyngs doone thusAre seldome jests, unlesse jests seryous.
Enter Eudon & Busse, leading in twoe lymes Byrtha& a Spaniell, hymselfe cladd all in nett.
O tysLa Busse; I've founde hys stratagem.—Nowe, Sir, y'are wellcome; whence growes thys dysguyse?
Bus. Sir, from the fayre protectyon of your graceAnd satisfactyon of your vowe; which doone,Bouldlye I hope I may voutsafe to beggeMy fathers deare deliverance.
Char. Noble sonne,What wouldst thou doe hadst thou a noble father!But come, sir, synce you putt me to the test,Resolve the doute: your fathers pardonedWhen you shall meet me uppon no hye way.
Bus. Which even nowe I did: the fallowe lands, Newe plowed & tylld are free from passengers.
Char. Tys graunted; but your selfe, Sir, must not ryde Of horse nor mare nor asse, & yet the beast An usuall thynge for burthen.
Bus. Suche is myne, A Mule, that is the bastard breede betwyxte An asse & mare, & onlye fytt for labor.
Char. But, sir, you must be neyther cloathed nor naked.
Bus. Nor am I, myghtie Sir: thys pore thynne nett Nor leaves me nakt nor yet dothe cover me.
Char. You prettylie orereache me; but you must Bringe in your hand the faythfullst frend you challenge.
Bus. Thys is he, my faythfull trustye spanyell, The verye typpe & truthe of true affectyon.
Char. But with hym must be joynd your greatest enemye.
Bus. They are not farre assunder: a curst wifeIs evermore mans worst aflyctyon,And shee that outgoes myne in bytternesMay fryght the whole worlde.
Char. Come, y'are ingenyous,And I confes th'ast conquerd, thoughe I knoweThy father houlds as much unworthynesAs may excusse tyrranye in a prynce:Yet for thys goodnes & thys industrye,Th'example of the sweetest disposytion,For all th'offences yet reveald unto meI freelye pardon hym.
Bus. And you are good And like your selfe, a verye god[103] in pyttie.
Ber. And from thys mercye I will new create In me a spyrrytt full of humblenes.
Enter La Fue in gallantrye.
Fue. Roame there & uncover, gentyllmen. I that am myne owne gentyllman usher am the best gentyllman inFraunceat thys present. Give place & avoyde these.
Bus. What meanes the peasant? syrha, are you madd?
Fue. Yes, and I were halfe nakt as you are. Roame I say!—O my sweete harte, I will [Offers to kisse Charli.] kysse thy whyte lipps in the syght of thys whole assemblye.
Char. Avaunte, I say! what meanes thys lunatycke.
Tur. Pore sott howe hees deceyvd! th'inchauntments vanyshed.— Syrha learne better manners.
Fue. How! syrha to my greatnes! I am not in case to carrye your tokens. Ould man, you had better manners when last I lefte you.—Come, sweete love, I will love thee without more intreatye. Let us withdrawe & in pryvate rumynat our selves together.
Char. Is there no whypps for knaves are impudent? Thys sawcynes will make your skynne [to] smarte.
Fue. Away, away! Y'are an ould man & should be wyse. I tell you I was not in love with you tyll you doated on me; to drawe me into a fooles paradysse[104] & there leave me is not an honest man's parte nor a good chrystyans.
Char. What kynde of madnes call you thys? for shame! Shall I be torturd with hym?
Tur. Tys but a rude grosse weaknes, which anon Ile shoe at full unto your majestie.
Fue. Come, sweeteCharles, I knowe thou lovest me, & love will creepe where it cannot goe. Come, letts condole together.
Char. Yes, if I like your example. Goe presentlye And give him fortye lashes: make hym bleede Soundlye, away with hym!
Fue. Howe, howe, how! fortye lashes! so I shall bleede to deathe. Call you that soundlye? Foote! I am sicke with thought on't.
Char. Away with hym! And if a prate, see that you dooble them: Away!
Fue. Well I will never trust the wooeinge of a great man whylst I live agayne: & they be as false to weomen as to men they have sweete eeles to hould by.
Char. Yet has a leave to prate?
Tur. Away with hym, —But on your lives give hym no punyshment.
[Ex. Fue. & guard.
Char. I have not seene a madnes of thys nature:But let him smarte for't.—Eudon, give comandThatGanelonattend me presentlye.But, stay—What sollemp sound is thys? I am prevented.
[Dead marche.]—Funeral sounde. Enter Orlando, Reinaldo leading Ganelon, Oliver, Didier; two herses, one with Eldegr. & Gab., the other Richard.
The cause of thys?
Orl. O my most sacred lorde, I bring you hereThe worlds extreamest monster, suche a manWhose ills exceede the lawes inventyon.Fyrst looke on thys, the fayre & comelye brauncheOfAimonsnoble famylie; then on theise,His fayrest syster & hys dearest mother(O heaven that I should name that dreadfull nameIn such a case as murder!) all by hymAnd hys right hand, with thys ill mans advyse,Murderd unjustlye.
Rei. To which I addeTreasons of daunger & of hye disgraceBothe to your crowne & person; and thoughe theyMyght glutt the lawe, yet my brothers bloodAnd theise twoe inocentts, I hope, will pleadeDyvorce of all repryvall.
Oli. Lastlye IWith theys stronge proofs, cannot be argued of,Confyrme all past denyall; hys owne handHere of thys pap[er] maks a regyster [Gives the letter.Of myscheives above wonder. Who reads thys,Thoughe flynte, must melt in pyttie.
Bus. Dye all my hopes, & in thys masse of shame Be buryed both my memorye & name. [Ex. La Busse.
Gan. What a lardge passage or cyrcompherenceTheise prynces make to come unto the wayWhich lyes before theire nosses! tys lost wyttTo seeke an engyne for the desperatt,Why, deathes in all he looks on; but to hopeSaftye were more then dyetye[105] can promysse.Let it suffyce all's true, & thus I rest:If I dye once, not ever, I am blest.
Char. I am amazd: what I have reade & heardTournes me likeGorgoninto senclessnes.He speaks heare of a rynge, a wytchcraft rynge,By which I was inchaunted to hys syster.Where is that damned juell?
Tur. Here in my safe possessyon, thys is it,Which at her deathe, lodgd underneathe her tonge,I found by carefull searche. Good deare sir, keepe itAnd hencefourthe onlye love your royall selfe.The spell is past example, & hys synneCan onlye ballance downe the wyckednes.
Gan. Butt I confes it, & the sorcerrerThat made it I did murder conynglye,And at her deathe had I recompast it,I had beene kynge ofFraunce. Thys noble knaveWas pryvie to the passadge.
Did. Tys toe late Nowe to denye it: deathe never bryngs hys smarte But when a strycks gaynst lawe or gaynst desarte.
Char. Away with them, & see theym presentlyeBroken uppon the wheele.[Ex. Gan. Did. & guard.Nephewe, for youI give you freelye here the realme ofSpayneAnd all domynions in it; for your guardeTen thousand of our bestFrenchegentyllmen.And wishe your fortunes like your valure beThe best of everye lived posterytie.
Orl. Sir[106], you doe bynde me to eternall servyceBothe in your love & justyce, for we fyndeTh'instructyons that on evyll men dependsIs to compare theire projects with theire ends.
[Exe.
FINIS. [Greek: Telos]
Terminat hora diem, terminat Author opus.
Nella [Greek: ph d ph n r] la B.[107]