A Collection of Old English Plays, Vol. III - Various
_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 was _Ganelons_
Onlye belongs to _Rychard_, he shall weare theym.
_Rich_. But without ease or comforte.--Good my lorde,
You have a power in hys hyghnes love
Beyond power to interprett: pray you begge
Hys 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 thynge
That is beyond discryption? knowe you hym?
_Fue_.--Hath spyed me and comends me: I may mounte.
_Tur_. Tys a dyspysed groome, the drudge of _Ganelon_.
_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 symetree
And knytt together with more arte & care
Then mathematycks cyrckles. _Durers_ rules
Are perfytted in hym. Why, theirs a face
Figurd 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]kes
Flouryshe like somer garlands. In soothe my soule
Loves thee beyond relatyon; for thee I doate
And dye in thyne affectyon. Come, Ile make
Thee greater then all _Fraunce_, above the peres,
The proudest he that breathes shall thynke hym blest
To do thee servyce, and esteeme it heaven
To 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 exceede
The power of thyne askynge; thou shalt treade
Uppon 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 aspyrd
Toth 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 nowe
To trooble you with my token; good Sir, please
To give it me agayne: a meaner man
Shall 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 from _Ganelon_?
_Bus_. Suche as can come from sorrowe: he is all
Wretchednes and mysfortune, and in me
Speaks to your sacred goodnes to be pleasd
Voutsafe to call your fayre dove to your fyst
(Mercye I meane) that may abate the stroake
Of your sharpe eagle justyce, and you will
Be 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 man
And I comend your vertue, but thys suyte
Is past all restytution: to thys prynce
I'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 for _Ganelon_.
_Bus_. O doe not make me, sir, be impyous,
For shoulde your breathe crushe me to attomyes,
Yet whylst my memorye can call hym father
I must invocke you for hym.
_Char_. Which to prevent
Take my last resolutyon, & from it
Swearve not in thyne alleagance: when thou shalt
Meete me uppon a way was never usd
By horse nor man, and thou thy selfe dost ryde
On neyther horsse, mare, asse, & yet thy beast
An usuall thynge for burthen, thou thy selfe
Neyther uncloathd nor naked, & shalt brynge
Thy greatest frend & greatest enemye
Coopld for thy companyons; then I vowe
To doe thy father honor, but tyll then
My mallyce hangs about hym.--Come, coossen, attend us.
[_Exe. Char., Rich_.
_Bus_. Then dye, pore _Ganelon_. When I shall meete
The kynge on no hye way, when I shall ryde
Uppon no beast & yet a beast of burthen,
Be neyther nakt nor cloathed, in my hande
My greatest frende & greatest enemye;
And but then get his favor. There is no sphynxe
That can absolve thys ryddell: well, tys decreed
Ile 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 thus
My father badd me tell you that he hathe
Not many howers to live, & dothe desyer
To parte in peace with all men, even with you
Whom he hathe nowe forgiven hartylie;
And if you please to vissytt him you may
Fynde love without captitulatyon [sic].
_Did_. Sir, Ile attend hym. [_Ex. La Busse_.
Yet I've heard a tale
Of a feirce snake that wounded by a swayne
Rememberd it for twentye yeares together
And at the last revendgd it; so may he.
I, but another tale tells of an asse
Which haveinge throwne hys cruell ryder wente
In pyttie to the surgeon, who recurd
The sycklie man & reconcyld the asse.
Why may not _Ganelon_ be like the asse
And thys fayre messadge like the curynge surgeon?
Ile trye it; synce _Orlando_ is unsuer,
Tys _Ganelon_ from whence may come my cure.
[_Ex. Didier_.
[SCENE 2.]
_Enter Ganelon, Eldegrad & Gabriella_.
_Gan_. Good mother, syster, deare spyrrytts, doe not haunte me:
I will not from eternytie beleive
That _Richard_ is unfaythfull.
_Eld_. No, runne on,
Swallowe thy shames like full bytts tyll they choake you
And make the people prophesye that you
Shalbe undoone by your false _Ganimede_.
_Gan_. A poxe uppon the people! Would you have
Me to depend uppon theire orackles?
_Gab_. Depend on your owne goodnes; doe not trust
A traytor in your bossome. _Richard_, they say
Hathe begd your honor and your offyces:
Hes counte of _Poyteers_, marquysse of _Saluca_.
_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; _Aimons_ youngest sonne
_Richards_ a 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 walle
Of stronge partytyon twixt theym. Hence theire loves
Shall never meete agayne.
_Gan_. O monstrous vyllayne, wouldst thou make her whore?
I tell you, shallowe braynd unfaythfull hynde,
Th'adst better have kyst _Juno_ in a cloude
And 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.
_Gan_. What aunswere made the emperoure?
_Bus_. That when I shall
Meete hym uppon a way was never usde
By horse nor man, & I myselfe to ryde
Neyther on horse, mare, asse, & yet the beast
An usuall thynge for burthen, & withall
Come neyther nakd nor cloathed, & doe bringe
My 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 sayd _Richard_?
_Bus_. Faythe, seemd to speake, but utterd nothynge.
_Elde_. Why that exprest hym bravelye.
_Gan_. A thynks me fallinge & avoyds my swindge
Least I should fall on hym, nor helps me forwarde
To dryve away the feare of douted ruyne.
Even thus doe beasts avoyde the shaken tree
And browze uppon the twygs that gave them shelter.
Myce be more sotyable; they keepe the house
Tyll everye roome be fyerd about theire eares,
But frends will vanyshe at reporte of daunger.
Where shall I fyxe my trust? My woes are nowe
Beyond my synns, yet Ile nor bend nor bowe.
[_Exeunt_.
[SCENE 3.]
_Enter Orlando, Reinaldo, Oliver_.
_Orl_. Pray, thee, good coosse, perswade not my beleife;
I cannot stoope[97] the harte of _Ganelon_.
My crosse unhappye fortune hathe decreed
A never shalbe conquerd; any ells,
Should a but vowe to conquer 50 worlds,
I would beleive a myght doo't: onlye I
Shall never master a dejected slave.
_Rei_. Indeede tys but your passyon so perswads you.
_Oli_. Be not fantastyque; that which we perswade
Hathe bothe an eassye and a certayne way,
Nor can it yeild to you a syngle joye
But muche redoobled sweetnes. And behould
Here 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 harte _Ganelons_.
_Rich_. Sir, hees a noble gentyllman.
_Oli_. A Baboone,
A verye windye caske of emptynes.
_Rich_. I wonder y'are so impudent. My frende
Hath vertues lefte: if you had eyther shame
Or charytie you would accuse your lybells.
But as the ravens which in _Arabia_ live,
Haveinge flowne all the feylde of spyces ore,
Seaze on a stynkinge carkasse, so doe you
Swiftlye leape over a most plentyous vale
Of good examples which grace _Ganelon_
And fasten on the scandall which was formd
By 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 reveales
My systers whoredome, or to take away
All feare of my revendge he now contryves
That my sadd deathe may fynishe my disgrace.
Myne eies are dazeld, but it is no wonder,
For in that glassye fellowe I dyserne
The true reflectyon of my fate & feares.
Tys he, tys he; there wants but a good crossbowe[99]
To levell at hys harte nowe. I began
A littill synce to chide my rashe beleife
And 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 suspecte
Theire whysprynge plotts. Thys equall hazard may
Shadowe the meanynge of some certayne danger,
The rather synce _Reinaldo_ seconds it.
I must see _Ganelon_ & speake theise douts:
This quarrell most concerns hym, for the wronge
And capytall abuse toucht onlye hym.
I gave a constant promyse never more
To vyssytt hym without the emperours leave,
And yet I will adventure. He may guesse
At secrett workings & confyrme my feare.
Thys nighte I will adventure, & obay
As he shall fashyion me to meete or stay.
[_Ex_.
_Actus 5_.
[SCENE 1.]
_Enter Eldegrade & Didier_.
_Eld_. What, have you vyssyted my greived sonne?
_Did_. Madam, I have.
_Eld_. And you are reconcyld? you see hys harte
Is 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 ceasse
Further reitteratyon: synce hees pleasd
To burye all, I wilbe patyent;
You knowe I ever lovd you & you have
Doone me most worthye, honest offyces.
_Did_. And many more will dedycatt unto you;
My lorde & I am reconcyld at full
And have disburdend all our greivances.
I doe confes I was bewytcht with fate
But will redeeme myne error; synce I knowe
He loves me nowe more then he did before,
I will deserv't so bravely you shall call
And 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 baytts
You cannot live twoe howers. Goe where you will,
He hathe a plott that haunts you. If you can
Fynde for your selfe any preventyon,
Use it with quycke indevor; for I knowe
The thunder speaks that presentlye will splytt you.
_Did_. You doe amaze me.
_Eld_. And like the chaesd Roe stand in that amaze
Tyll the hounds catche you. What I speake
Is to prevent your present tragedye
And to blott murder from my _Ganelon_.
Be wise. [_Ex. Eldegrad_.
_Did_. Am I then noosd! will styll my villanous wytts
Betray me to mysfortune, am I lymed!
What shall I doe? flight will not nowe avayle me.
I knowe hys projects like hys mallyce runns
To 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 cabanett
And 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--farwell _Ganelon_!
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 fatte
Can interposse betwixte theym: _Didier_ dyes
And so shall _Richarde_. O the wearye thoughts
That keepe a daylie senate in my braynes,
Repeat unto me what I loathe to heare,
A frends disloyaltye. Be wysser you
That undertake the greate & hallowed leauge
Of frendlye comforte. Scoole your ryotous bloode
And teache your fancyes Wisdome; be not drawne
With suche a frayle unproffytable thynge
As face or person when you chusse a frende;
Th'are all deceytfull. Would my funerall rytts
Were as I wishe provyded, to dispeirse
A warnynge by my horryble abuse,
And I would dye to morrowe. I lament
That such another pyttied foole as I
Should 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 courte
To speake at leasure & pretend imployment.
Well, take your tyme; tys not materyall
Whether you speake the resydue behynde
Nowe or at doomes day. If thy comon sence
Be not yet parted from thee, understande
I doe not cursse[100] thee dyinge, because once
I loved thee dearlye; & collect by that
There is no devyll in me nor in hell
That 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 cordyall
Agaynst 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 lawe
And saved me from all daunger.
_Gan_. What! that I
Have practysd gaynst thee! tys most damned false.
I doe protest I love thee trulye, fullye.
Come, let us joyne; my contyence says thou didst
But 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 bell
And 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_.
[SCENE 2.]
_Enter Oliver_.
_Oli_. The hower is past, the place & cyrcomstance
And all the formes of manhood(?) are expyrd,
And yet younge _Richard_ comes not. Tys most straunge:
He is as valyent as is victorye,
And dare uppon a roughe say [sea?] hye as heaven
Court all amazed daunger. Nowe to fayle
Is past all revelatyon: suer as deathe
Our 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 frend
On whom he doats toe dearlye.
_Rei_. Suer tys so,
And it will vexe the noble palladyne
Above the heyghte of madnes; nay, beleiv't
T'will chaunge opynion to a constant faythe
Of hys extreame mysfortunes. See a comes.
_Enter Orlando_.
_Orl_. Howe now, my lords? howe speede your noble plotts?
What, have you woone younge _Richard_ from hys frend?
Tell me whose eloquence hathe doone the deede
And 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 worst
Ile make it for our purposse every way
And even kill the soule of _Ganelon_.
With talkinge of the cowardyse, so that you
Houlde patyence for a mynute.
_Orl_. Patyence!
Preache it to cynicks or greene sycknes gyrles
That have not blood enough to make a blushe
Or forme an acte might cause one. I have longe
Like to a reelinge pynetree shooke the earthe
That I was rooted in, but nowe must fall
And be no longer the fatts tennys ball.
_Rei_. Come be more temperd, you shall see from thys
Sprynge pleasure that you wishe for. _Olyver_
Shall instantlye upbrayd false _Ganelon_
With _Rychards_ muche unworthynes.
_Oli_. Thats decreed
For in such tearms I meane to sett hym fourthe
As shall even burst hys gall with agonye:
Nay, it shall make hym never darre t'apeare
Where 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_.