A Collection of Old English Plays, Vol. III - Various
_Enter La Fue_.
_Fue_. Where's _Didier_?
_Did_. Here, thou contemptyble thynge that never werte
So free as to put on thyne owne ill hatt;
Thou that hast worne thy selfe and a blewe coate
To equall thryddbareness and never hadst
Vertue inough to make thee [be] preferrd
Before 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 hydd
My adge is not, for I neare weare a hatt;
And that shalbe ballast to my complaynte
To 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 selfe
With the full Joy I tast. O _Ganelon_,
Teache me a meanes t'expresse the gratytude
I owe thy vertues for thys royall matche,
Whereby me thynks my ice is tournd to fyer,
My earthe to ayre; those twoe base elements
Can challendge nothinge in my composition,
As thou and _Theodora_ now 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 maks
Us thynke a happynes, was a greate burthen,
But nowe tys all the heaven I wishe to knowe;
For Tyme (whose ende like hys originall
Is most inscrutable) hathe nowe payde backe
The sapp of fortie winters to theise veanes,
Which he had borrowed to mayntayne hys course
From these late dead now manlye facultyes.
Kysse me, _Theodora_. Gods, carouse your fyll,
I envye not your nectar; from thys lypp
Puerer 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 delighte
I 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 excellent _Theodora_.
_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 Thracian _Orpheus_, whose admyred skyll
Is sayd to have had power ore ravenous beasts
To make theym lay their naturall feircenes by
When he but toucht his harpe; that on the floods
Had power above theire regent (the pale Moone)
To make them tourne or stay their violent course
When he was pleasd to ravishe theym with sounds,
Neare had abyllitie with all his arte
To matche the naturall musyque of thy voyce.
And were I on the axeltree of heaven
To 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 beleife
And be as wellcome as a gentyll callme
To a longe daungerd seaman in a storme,
Suche as up on _Aeneas_ straglinge fleete
At _Juno's_ will by _Aeolus_ was raysd
When in his flyght from horror he sawe more
Then _Troy_ affoarded; for the newese I brynge
Is vyctorie, which crownes the crownes of kynges.
_Char_. Cossen _Reinaldo_, 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 mightie _Charlimayne_?
Sir, from your worthye nephewe I am come,
The ever feard _Orlando_, who in _Spayne_
Hath with hys owne fame mixt your happynes
By a blest vyctorye.
_Char_. We have no leasure
To heare, nor are we able to contayne
Another happynes, nor is theire other.
Successe in warre is but a pleasynge dreame
From whence a drume may fryght us. Here doth rest
My happynes which cannot be exprest.
[_Ex. Cha., The., Gab., and attendants_.
_Tur_. Pryncely _Reinaldo_, 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: when _Charles_ dothe 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 cause
Of hys joy cannot chuse but worke to you
Effecte 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 thynge
Of strengthe about hym, and that strength is hys
With 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 I
Felte not a straunger love within my selfe
In 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 experyence
Of youre knowne worthe most steddylie directs)
That if suche an affectyon manadge you,
Tys not the man or sexe that causes it
But the styll groweinge vertues that inhabytt
The object of your love.
_Gan_. Tys orrackle, most happye pryncelye _Richard_,
Thou youngest and thou fayrest braunch of _Aimon_;
And thy still growing vertues have made thee
The 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 forme
Could not but be the myne of manye vertues.
Then mysser-like I sought to ope the myne
And fynde the treasure, whereuppon I wanne
Your inmost frendshipp, which with joy attaynd
In seekinge for a sparke I found a flame,
Whose rychnes made me admyratyons slave
And staggerd me with wonder.
_Rich_. Good sweete lorde,
Forbeare thy courtshypp, our acquayntance is
Too oulde, & as I hope frendshypp too fyrme
To be nowe semented.
_Gan_. True, my best freinde;
And thoughe I wante arythmatycke to counte
My treasure in thee, pray thee give me leave
To joy in my posession of suche blysse
To which all honours in our _Fraunce_ compaird
Were as a rushe mongst manye myllions shared.
_Rich_. Sir, thoughe I knowe there is nothynge in me
Able to give a flattery hope to thryve
In the most abject slave to it that courts,
And therefore cannot doute it in your selfe,
Yet I beseeche you talke of somethynge elles
Or I shall growe unmannerlye & leave you:
Myne owne prayse is my torture.
_Gan_. Heaven forbydd
Yf I shoulde torture hym I love so muche,
Beyond expression! And synce this offends thee
Ile speake of that shall please my noblest _Rycharde_.
_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 name
Or fyrst oryginall from some mountayns foote,
Begyns a syngle streame, but at last growes
To 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 all
Excepte it selfe, the fyer may be blowne
Into a second flame.
_Rich_. I graunte you that--
_Gan_. Posytion and request; or elles I perishe.
_Rich_. What meanes my _Ganelon_?
_Gan_. Faythe to be playne
And not to wrong the love, which I have founde
Ever in thee, with any further doute,
My love would have thee call a kynge thy sonne
And gett him of my sister. Startst thou backe?
Come, I doe knowe thou lovest her with thy soule
And has syght for her often. Now enjoy,
And doe not stande amazd: if thou refuse,
Then my hopes like the flower of flaxe receyve
Their byrthe and grave together; for by heaven
To be made monarke of the unyverse
And lorde of all claspt in the seagods armes,
I would not have her toucht unlesse by thee:
And if the thoughts of men were scrutable
To 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 fytt
Ile cease to questyon, yet my contyence calls
It 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 wishes
And locke you in saftie. In the nexte roome
Stay 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 crowne
And cheate hys lawfull heyre; and synce the lawe
Makes all legitimate in wedlocke borne,
By whom so ere begott, the way is even
Unto my future blysse and earthlye heaven.--
And see howe luckily this fellow comes!
Happynes courtts me.
_Enter Didier_.
_Did_. My most honoured lord.
_Gan_. O _Didier_, the famous nephewe unto _Charles_,
The onlye heyre and hope of fruytfull _Fraunce_,
Famous _Orlando_, is returninge home.
_Did_. So tys given out.
_Gan_. But might there not be somethynge given the prynce
To stay hys journey? Ile be playne with thee,
For thy knowne love is worthye all my trust:
He is an envyous torrent interposd
Twixte 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 drame
Will purdge hys soule away, & twilbe thoughte
Some of the rebells in these frontyre townes,
By him reducst to false obedyence,
Have, in revendge o'the servytude wherein
Hys sworde hathe fyxte them, doone't; so not so much
As bare suspytion ever will attache thee.
_Did_. I'm glad y'ave named me in't; I was afrayde
I should have beene lefte out in that brave acte,
Whereto my proper hate unto _Orlando_
And 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 paynes
Be equall sharer in my present meanes
And 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 honest _Didier_.
Other affayres of seryous consequence
Call me; the Empresse must be solicyted
Unto an acte for which I'de loathe her but
My ends have gloryous aymes.
_Did_. Aboute them, Syr, and doute not thys. [_Exit Ganelon_.
Yet methynks it were not fytt in polycie
To venture all in one pore shallowe boate,
The sea of state goeinge so rough and hye.
Factyons in courte are like to suyts in lawe
Where goulde and grace keepe equytie in awe;
And but thys maryadge rules the emperoure,
Who shall protect me in so many ways
Leading to severall and confused ends?
I will keepe no dyrecte one but even wander
As 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 Mounseire _Didier_!
_Did_. Mounseir _La 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 it
And as he is a courtier beene excusd
Thoughe it were false; for he whose tonge and harte
Runne one selfe course shall seldome find the way
To a preferment. Nowe the courte is growne
As strange a beast as the thronged multytude,
Dyffers not from the rabble, onlye tys
The 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 me
In everye severall follye.
_Ber_. Yet littill _Richard, Aimons_ youngest 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, by _Venus_.
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 rose
Nypt with a colde frost, will she styll keepe in
Cyrckled 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 knowe
Hates me but for my goodnes; and althoughe
I cannot blame the Empresse, yet on hym
Ile vent myne honest spleene, and he shall knowe
Vertue at porest hath yet one advocate,
Though muche too meane to helpe her.--See, a comes.
_Enter Ganelon_.
_Gan_. The Empresse and younge _Richard_ are in league,
Arme knytt and harte knytt with the fervencye
That 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 vyce
And greatnes make your ills seeme gloryous
To some too farre beneathe you, that neare looke
Into the chynckes and crannyes of the state,
Yet, Sir, with reverence, knowe you have doone ill
To crosse _Orlandos_ fayre successyon
By 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 sence
To speake with suche a daringe impudence.
_Bus_. Howe's that?
_Gan_. Thus and observe me. As you love the cubboarde
Wherein your calves brayns are lockt up for breakfast,
Whenere agayne thou shalt but dare to play
The dogge and open thus when I am present
Without my spetyall lycence and comand,
Ile vexe thee so with punishment and shame
That life shalbe thy torment. Hence, thou slave,
Of no more shyrtts, than soules, and they consistinge
Of equall foulness! hence, I say! Ignorance
Shall 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 myne
As 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 plott
And spyrrytt to acte.
_Enter Didier_.
Howe is it _Didier_?
_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 feares
Thou hast dyspeyrct for ever; from hys deathe
My 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 I
Or 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 served
Your Lordshypp five and twentye.
_Gan_. What meanes thys?
_Fue_. My servyce notwithstandinge, thys proude Jacke
Abuses me in words I understand not;
And therefore in playne tearmes if you keepe hym
I am no longer for you.
_Gan_. Patyence, man:
If thys be all Ile see it remedyed.
He shalbe sorrye for the wronge thats past
And 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 oughte
Proceeding from my gravitie to thee
Be esteemd sawcynes? you heare, my lorde;
Can fleshe and bloode induer thys? I doe knowe
My servyce is more pretyous then to be
Thus touzd and sullyed by hys envyous breathe;
And though in pollycie I will not leave
Your lordshypps servyce, yet if polycie
Or brayne of man may studdye a revendge,
Thys wytt of myne thats seldome showne in vayne
Shall 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_.
[SCENE I.]
_Enter Orlando, Reinaldo, Oliver, Souldiers, Attendants_.
_Orl_. O that my cursse had power to wounde the starres
That with a more then envyous aspect
Thus racke me & my fortunes! marryed?
I coulde allmost brable with destenye
For giveinge thys curst maryadge holye forme.
And suer it errd in't: tys no gordyon knott
That tyes suche a disparytie together.
But what will not soothd prynces? theire hye blood
A flatterye drawes toth lees, and more corrupte
Then a disease thats kyllinge. Nowe must I,
Like to an Argosie sent rychlye fourthe,
Furnisht with all that mighte oppose the winds
And 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 thunder
And naturall terror of tempestuous stormes,
Must (that had beene the wonder of the worlde
And loved burthen of the wanton seas)
Be nowe a subject fytt for all mens pytties
And like to such, not cared for a jott,
... ... ... ... ... must lye by & rott:
And so must I.
_Rei_. His dottage maks hym thynke
Hym selfe so happye in thys cursed matche
That when the newse of your successe aryved
(Thoughe cladd in laurell and fayrest victorie)
He had no eare for't, all his powers beinge fylled
With a suppossed joy conceyvd in her.
_Oli_. He has not dealt like _Charlimayne_ t'expose
You to the horror of a cyvill warre,
And, whylst your loyaltye made glorious way
To hys wisht ends of conquest, thus to crosse
Your fayre successyon.
_Orl_. Twas a speedinge plott
To sende me into _Spayne_, whylst _Ganelon_
Tooke the ryght course; yet, if I had beene here,
The envyous destenye that dothe attende
On all my undertakings, would have made
My best meanes uslesse to have hynderd it.
For not the cooninge of slye _Ganelon,
Charlimayne's_ dottage, 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 smyle
But when it gave me a full cause to cursse.
And were the way to my successyon free
As when I lefte the courte, yet gaynst all sence
And possybyllitie somethynge suer woulde sprynge
From my meare fate to make another kynge:
So, torrent-like, my fortune ruynes all
My 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 dyssects
With all the poysons and sharpe corrosyves
Stylld in the lymbecke of damde pollycie.
My starres, my starres!
O that my breath could plucke theym from their spheares
So 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 owne
Ill manners should be noted thynks it fytt
In pollycie to scoffe at other mens.
He will taxe all degrees and think that that
Keepes 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 prayrs
Can ere be heard to my desyred good,
I am not so voyde of humanitie
But I will thanke your love.
_Rei_. Pray, sir, what newse
Hath the court lately been deliverd of?
_Bus_. Such as the gallimaufry that is found
In her large wombe may promise: he that has
The fayrest vertues weares the foulest shyrte
And knows no shyfte for't: none but journeymen preists
Invay agaynst plurallytie of liveings
And they grow hoarse ithe cause, yet are without
The remedye of sugar candye for't.
Offices are like huntinge breakfasts gott
Hurlye 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 thyngs
To mere confussyon: nothing there hath forme
But that which spoyles all forme, & to be shorte
Vice 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 hope
None here are jealyous that I brought one sparke
To 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 spayd
And all mankynd made Euenucks, yet in spyghte
My ill fate would have gotten her with chylde--
Of a son, too. Hencefourthe let no man
That hathe a projecte he dothe wishe to thryve
Ere let me knowe it. My mere knowledge in't
Would tourne the hope't successe to an event
That would fryghte nature & make patyence braule
With the most pleasinge objecte.
_Bus_. Sir, be at peace;
Much may be found by observatyon.