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 see The rose and lyllie sprynginge in thy cheeks Fresher than ever. Deathes imortal sythe Dare not offend thy branches: O, thou arte A 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 imprinte My soule uppon theise rubyes. All the fame And garlands I have woone throughe Chrystendome, The conquests I have made of Fraunce, of Spayne, Of Ittalie, Hungarie, Germanie, Even to the uttmost east poynt, placd with thee Are toys of worthlesse valewe. Here's my crowne, And but for thys I were not Charlymayne.

Turp. Alas, tys she maks hym not Charlymayne!

Char. Comaund some musique. Everye man departe,

[Exe. Bus. and attend[ants]. Soft musique.

But Turpin and my sister. Heavye sleepe Presses me to her bossome; gentyll sweete, Let me not hurte thy goodnes, for my rest Shall 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 above Th'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 scrolles Can even bynd the soule to servytude. It may be that's wrought on the emperoure. I know the hate of Ganelon to be A 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 colde And 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 ringe Hydd underneathe her tonge. Blesse me, fate! Somethynge depends uppon it: what it is I 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 chaunge When did Charles use such frayltie? Men at armes Did 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 age Did neare forgett mortallytie, nor hathe The wantonst thought in prynces made me looke Beyond the hower of deathe. Let me viewe her.

Rich.—Here's a chaunge; he wilbe Charles agayne.

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 mynde Was never fyxte a frantycke passyon. But more of that hereafter: take it hence And let the ladyes guarde it tyll it be Interrd 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 face May blesse an ould man's eie sight. O tys he [Exit Rich. Hathe brought to Fraunce her wishes in suche wreathes Of uncompared conquests that it bends With weaknes of requyttall. Here he comes!

Enter Orlando, Reinaldo, Oliver, Richard and Didier, Attend[ants].

O my best souldier, wellcome! I growe younge With thynkinge of thy gloryes. Wellcome, coosse, Wellcome, renowned Oliver, 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 me And I partake not of it, but within me I bringe and beare more mysseryes then would Unpeople your whole kyngdome.

Char. Whats the matter?

Orl. Sir, to let passe somethynge without your power Nowe to be remedyed, I am persuaded (Thoughe I persuade my selfe to littill purposse) To tell you of a practyse gainst my life By Ganelon.

Char. Call hym; you shall be hearde, You are to me toe pretyous to take wronge. Yet, nephewe, be advisd, for you doe knowe That indyrect surmyses more abuse And in that strange abuse more deeplye wounde An inocent brest then proves a guyltie one.

Orl. Sir, I best knowe howe muche abusses wounde An inocent brest: myne keepes a register With corsives charactred on everye syde Of the griefe drinkinge pap[er]. But I say, Were Ganelon here—

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 longe Practysd agaynst myne honor in myne absence At last didst deale with thys just gentyllman (For so I must repute hym, though hys pyttie Be myne afflyction) to poyson me.

Gan. My emperour, If thys aspertyon may fynde out a way Thorrowe your easynes to wound myne honor, Justyce hathe left the earthe.

Char. What say you, Syr? ha!

Did. I say and sweare by all dyvinitie That can rewarde or punyshe, tys most true That with a summe of goulde and further hopes Of future honors he did wynne my promysse To 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 nobles And yet have lawe for't. But if any man (Thys slave except), although hys synns would make The sunne put on a cloud to shame his syghte And 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 me Or 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. All Fraunce dothe 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. Worthy Reinaldo, 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 perceyve Howe 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 departe Your 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 favor In a kyngs guyfte, and had hys hyghnes pleasd T'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 necke And bathe thy bossome with my joyfull teares. O thou arte sweete and lovelye as the sprynge, Freshe as the mornynge on the blushinge rosse When 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 carracters In 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 joys Toe good for theym to wyttness. Come, my sweete; We will in private measure our delights And fyll our wishes bryme full. F[r]aunce is 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: honestye And contyence are sweete mystresses; though to speake truthe I 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 fytt For anye ill. Successe may make all fayre; He that for naught can hope should naught dispayre.

[Exit.



Actus Tertius.

(SCENE I.)

Enter Eldegrad and Gabriella.

[Eld.] ... ... ... it is not possyble ... ... ... ... ... The smoothe face of the wanton lovelye Richard Should 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 ruyns That are most conynglie knytt up in pleasures; And are you styll to learne or will you trust A 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 goodnes So muche as to account your errors follyes; But, I proteste, were you another woman, I should be bouldlye seryous and tell you That all the wytts of chrystendome are spente In stryppinge the corrupted harte of smoothnes: And yet you thynke a smoothe perswadinge boy Beares all hys daunger in hys cheeke and eie! Shall weomen trust a sweete and courtlye face When they themselves deceyve most by the face? Why serves our owne dissemblinge arte if we Cannot 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 subtyll Ganelon, Onlye withdrawes Richards affectyon. Even to my selfe a swore a should not love me; And who that knowes hym, knowes he is not ledd By 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 dissentyon Twixte Rychard and my brother, tourne their loves To mortall hate and emulatyon; Which but effected, Richard suer will love Bee'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 lord Ganelon?

Eld. Better then envye wishes, gratyous sir. Lost from the courte he left behynde hym there All 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 affayres But onlye looks to's owne comodytie.

Tur. Hys chaunge was passynge happye then, it seemes.

Gab. Bothe for hymselfe and hys; for, greate sir, nowe He onlye wayts on hys partycullar, Seeks from a cuntrye comonwealth to rayse All 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 plante Theire braunches in the broade ayre, not be plashd[91] Or propt agaynst the walls of pallaces.

Tur. I doe comend your tempers, but, madam, tys Hys highnes pleasure, for some spetyall ende Onlye to hym reveald, that instantlye Your sonne repayre to'th courte, which I intreate You 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 sorcerye And 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 complyment And torturde past all suffrance; age nor sexe Houlde 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 starve My 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 life Then 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 thynge That 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 beleive Another god, or I must forfayte heaven And worshypp what I see, thys happy creature. Nowe courtyers flatterye cannot keepe my sence From knowinge what I feele, for I am weake: Tys all my comfort nowe to thynke on thee Who 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 request Or 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 says La 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 With Ganelon?

Gan. As Ganelon with it, Most desolatlye, sir. I have induerd Subjection to my fate since last I sawe you; In all which haplesse bondage I have gaynd [Not one] howers comforte tyll twas dooblye yearnd Synce fyrst I knewe what sleepe and wakinge mente I never slepte in quyett nor awakt But with a hartye wishe to sleepe my last. Not a pore simple jest hathe made me smyle Tyll I had payd the tribute of my cares Over and over. Fortune has opposd My naturall blessings and my wishest ends; Those verye honors which my byrthright claymes Have cost me more vexatyon to preserve Than all the numerous tyttells of a kynge Purchasd with plauge and famyne; yet in all My days of sorrowe I was styll to learne A suffrynge of that impyous accounte Which 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 of Angeres.

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 obayd And came: but then, Sir, what became of me? You sente me presentlye away for Spayne. Nay, never frowne, I doe remember thys As well methynks as if it hapned nowe.

Char. Your memoryes toe blame; you doe mistake.

Orl. O that I could mistake or never thynke Uppon thys daylie terror to my sence. Sir, tys a thyng I labour to mystake But 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 hence And conquerd you all Spayne, to tourne diseasd.

Char. Be patyent, and Ile undertake the cuer.

Orl. Oh I should shame your physsycke, though indeede Tys the kyngs evyll I am trobled with, But such a rare kyngs evyll that I feare My 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 disease Which 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 cursse When 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 belonge Unto your fault muche more then banishment. I heare discharge you of all offyces, Honors and tyttells or whatere exceeds The slender name of a pore gentyllman. Besyds I fyne you out of your estate At fortye thousand crownes, and never hence To see the courte, but live thence banyshed. Nephewe, this may suffyce you; if't be light Ile 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 thee And utter my dystractyon; only nowe Can 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 undisturbd And 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 crowne In 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? Cossen Reinaldo, cossen Oliver, Why does he growe thus guyddie?

Gan. What says the emperours nephewe? does he grudge That I should take a pore content in shame? Your envye will discredite you, my lorde. Gentyllmen, have you not hearde of Aesopps dogge That 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 syncerlye I 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 curre Would envye that which he hym selfe dispyses? Be not offended, Sir, thoughe symple I Can live in peace at home with hungrye leeks And never curse my planettes. I can leape With 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 gravitie Not to be shaken with rydiculous winds Of envye or of scandall. Good Sir, thynke His resolutyons nowe his champyons.

Gan. Syrha, no more; you shall goe home with me And learne to laughe at fortune; I have there A worthye matche and vertuous wife for thee And she shall pyle up all your flatterye: The courte hath no use for it.—Sir, methought You 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 synnes By losse of my late offyces? I am bounde (My contyence knowes it well) to blesse your lordshipp If you or others moved the emperour To my displaceinge. I am nowe unloaded Of 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 lorde Richard?

Rich. Here, reverend Sir.

Tur. Hys majestie comands you uppon payne Of life and your aleagance that from hence You never more conversse with Ganelon Eyther by letter, speeche or complyment. No not so much as see hym; and withall You 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 I Look't to have tryumphd in hys base dejection And he should have beene glutted with hys fortunes, Whylst I and all the projects I can make Cannot (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 to Angellica, ... ... ... 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 thosse Fortune did never medle: honor there Served in her person, not by substytute. Instead of which pore blessinge not a day Hathe hapned synce without some mysserye. Wheres now my hope of byrthrighte, where all Fraunce? Drownd in the cradle of a chamber groome. And now, just now, resolveinge to aflycte That myserable lorde, he doth dispyse Me & 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.



[SCENE 2.]

Enter Eudon, Eldegrade, Bertha & Gabrielle.

Eud. Ile sooner shrynke back when my lifes assaulted Then when my promyse shalbe claymd (good madam). I promysd to your lorde that Bertha here, My daughter, should be marryed to hys sonne, And Ile perform't; for onlye to that ende I've brought her nowe.

Eld. And, Sir, tis noblye doone; I knowe the matche is more desyred by hym Then the kyngs favors, which at thys tyme he Is laboringe to recover, but's retourne I 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 younge Rychard hunts 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 knowe Disgrace is ever like the greate assay Which turnes imperfytt mettalls into fume And shewes pure gould to have an absolute valewe Because it styll remayns unchaungable Disgrace can never scarre a good mans sence, Tys an undaunted harte shoes Innocence: Shame in a guyltie man (like wounds & scratches In a corrupted fleshe) may ranckell deepe, Good mens dishonors heale before they weepe.

Gan. Pray thee, noble Eudon, 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 muche As to be recond fearfull; but the cause, The cause of my dull ruyne must affryghte you You have not flynte enoughe to arme your soule Agaynst compassyon; & that kylls a souldior. Let me have roame to breathe at lardge my woes And talke alone, least the proceedinge ayre That easeth me beget in you a payne. Leave me, pray leave me: my rude vyolence Will halfe distract your spyrrytts, my sadd speeche Like such a noyse as drownds all other noyse Will so afflyct your thoughts & cares on me That 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 endure To be exposd uppon the publique scaffold To all myne enemyes contempt, but nowe I'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, My Richard, I must never see agayne.

Gab.—Excellent newse! hould, there Ile honor thee.

Eud. Why, all thys is a tryfell; suche a blast As should not move a weake reede. Come, I love Your selfe and not your fortunes: pray forgett em. See, I have brought my daughter, and desyer The 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 fayre Bertha?

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 delighte That, madam, you shall counte thys maryadge yoake The 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 agonye And shoe the worlde I can cast honors of More easlye then my garments. Wisdome & thought Most precious ever when tys dearest bought.

[Exe. all but Gab.

Gab. Suer thys should be the day of Valentyne When everye byrd dothe coople, onlye I Pore 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 frende In myne ill brothers name. It may worke Somethynge to gayne my wishes; at the worst It cannot make me more then I am accurst. And heres my messenger.—

Enter La Fue.

Howe nowe Mounseir Fue? Whyther gost thou in suche a sweatinge passyon?

Fue. O, Madam, sweatynge is goode for the itche, and the rascall Didier haveing 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, Didier I 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 noble Richard, the sonne of Aimon, 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.

[SCENE I.]

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 frende Like spells and witchcraft dothe amaze my brayne. He urdges me to love where a dothe knowe I can by no meanes fancye; yet tys so, Our safties doe compell it, & to that I must of force bowe, teachinge my harde harte To seme most softe when tys most hard[e]ned.

Enter Turpin.

Tur. Where is pryncelye Richard?

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] in Fraunce.

Rich. I doe not understand your reverence.

Tur. The emperour will make my meanyng playne. ... ... ... day Cunstable of Fraunce, Countye Poyteirs, marquysse of Sallun, And grand le seignior of the ordnance.

Ric. Theise are the dignities of noble Ganelon!

Tur. But these shall all be Richards.

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 fayrest Gabrielle; thys Your 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, Mounseir La 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 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.



[SCENE 3.]

Enter Didier with a letter.

Did. My cares & feares are past, but Ganelons Thys letter woulde revyve if t'were reveald, Nay begett newe ones to hym of suche wayghte That he must synke beneathe theym. Thys I founde (Mongst other thyngs) in haplesse Richards pockett When I interrd hym, subscribd by Ganelon, Whereby's owne hand would leade hym to the blocke Should I discover it; for heres contaynd The kyngs abuse & Gabriellas whoreinge. But I am nowe beforehand: to hym selfe Ile give thys letter; so begett[101] in hym A fyrme beleife of myne integrytie Which nowe goes upryghte, does not halte betweene Preferment & disgrace; for, come what will, I am all Ganelons & wilbe styll.

Enter Ganelon.

And see, he comes. My Lord—

Gan. O Dydier, 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 earthe Couldst thou fynde badd enough to hyde hys bones. If in some flowrye meade th'ast hym interrd The 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 selfe With any doute oth' secrecye was usd In actinge your comand. And, Sir, because I will not have it rest within my power At anye tyme to wronge or to traduce Your honour by a probable suspytion, Receyve thys letter which atts buryall I 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 face And muche dystempers hym.

Gan. Deathe! I am lost in treason: my fordgd hand Hathe whored my liveinge syster & displays All 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. Certaynlye Rychards harte Coulde not but doubte thys charrackter, & in The strengthe of doute he came to me last nyghte To be resolvd; or ells why should he beare Suche daunger in hys pockett? Admyttinge thys, What followes then? Why, if that were the ende Of's vysytatyon, then it needs must followe That 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 ende Was to enjoy Rychard unlawfullye: Howe might a fallinge out twyxt hym & me Assyst the ende (for such a thynge she causd)? How? What a dull slave am I! why twas as muche As the untyinge of hys codpeyce poynte, Almost the rem in re! for whyle he stoode Constant to my dyrectyons all was well, But, those abandond, then,—harte! I am madd: I pray thee, Diddier, helpe me to cursse Me & my rashnes, that so curbd my reason I would not heare hym speake but put hym strayght To 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 lynte For 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 & pleasure That ever breathd a myserable life, If I may knowe what pleasses you. Beware And answere wiselye: you are leaveinge nowe All that hathe tyckld your insatyatt bloode, When you resolve my questyon: I will strypp Your sweete contents of to the naked soule Before 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 poynte And never make thys parley; but I'me kynde, And youle confes it when you reade that letter. You knowe the charackter & the whole scope Ere you peruse one worde, I make no questyon. But reade it, doe, that whyle you seeme to reede You may make readye for another worlde. Why doe you studye? flatter not your selfe With 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 thoughts Make thee confes it, that thy soule beinge easd May 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 seene Richard synce 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 so Because it proves you honest. I am nowe Agayne resolvd that Richard was a vyllayne, And therefore am I gladd agayne, because He 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 becomes The gloryous parte of conquerynge my selfe, To say hereafter, when I would relate A storye worth attentyon, that thys hande, Thys constant ryght hand, did deliver me In 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, For Rychard was all good & vertuous. Dispayre nowe maks me honest & Ile speake Truthe with true testymonye, for here it comes.

Enter Eldegrade.

We twoe contryved & wrytt these charracters, By Heaven we did; twas onlye we that spreade The 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 behynde I 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 leavest Synns of preferment unaccomplyshed, Thou that repynst agaynst thy starrs & lucke When heaven prevents the bassnes of thy gayne; Littill thynkst thou wherefore thy gaynes will serve, Nor wherefore thy close pollycie should fayle Tyll thou forsakst it, & then, wretched clay, Thou fyndst a horsse & dogge thy betters: they Dye unperplext with sence of dyinge, thou Seest 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?

Oli One that will prove you Rychard is a cowarde.

Gan. Good darringe tonge, be not toe desperatt. He was your deare frend, was he not?

Oli Yes, 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 boulde To say here stands the most afflycted soule That ever felt the mysseryes of byrthe. Make me beleive my plaugs are infynett That I may so desyer to leave my fleshe And 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 darrd As much as he that durst affront the gods, But greife hathe staynd me.

Did. What meane you, Sir? Why I am Didier.

Gan. That buryed Richard? 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 syghte Will soften my conjealed bloode, for nowe Me thynks I am not passyonate. But stay, Let all sweete rest preserve hym: I will thynke Howe reelinge in the anguyshe of hys wounds I would not heare hym when a was about To teache repentance, and that onlye thought Shall melt me into cynders. I am like The needye spendthryfte nowe, that an inforcst To make my wants knowne where I must not hope To gett releife. Releife? tys a vague hope And I will banyshe the conceyte. Come hyther, Looke uppon thys & wonder yet a littill It was my handyworke, yet nothynge neare The synne of kyllinge Richarde.

Oli. Have you then slayne the noblest worthye Richard?

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 deathe I murderd theise: thys temporyzinge knave Buryed him last nyght; all I can aleadge Agaynst 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.



[SCENE 4.]

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 fast As twere a comon hye way, yet no speeche Can 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 beast Nymble & fytt for burthen.

Char. Eudon, goe Bydd hym dismounte & as he loves hys life Presentlye come before us. I will knowe [Ex. Eudon. The ende of thys straunge purposse. Suer there must Some secrett hange uppon it! thyngs doone thus Are seldome jests, unlesse jests seryous.

Enter Eudon & Busse, leading in twoe lymes Byrtha & a Spaniell, hymselfe cladd all in nett.

O tys La Busse; I've founde hys stratagem.— Nowe, Sir, y'are wellcome; whence growes thys dysguyse?

Bus. Sir, from the fayre protectyon of your grace And satisfactyon of your vowe; which doone, Bouldlye I hope I may voutsafe to begge My 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 pardoned When 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 wife Is evermore mans worst aflyctyon, And shee that outgoes myne in bytternes May fryght the whole worlde.

Char. Come, y'are ingenyous, And I confes th'ast conquerd, thoughe I knowe Thy father houlds as much unworthynes As 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 me I 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 in Fraunce at 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, sweete Charles, 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 comand That Ganelon attend 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 here The worlds extreamest monster, suche a man Whose ills exceede the lawes inventyon. Fyrst looke on thys, the fayre & comelye braunche Of Aimons noble famylie; then on theise, His fayrest syster & hys dearest mother (O heaven that I should name that dreadfull name In such a case as murder!) all by hym And hys right hand, with thys ill mans advyse, Murderd unjustlye.

Rei. To which I adde Treasons of daunger & of hye disgrace Bothe to your crowne & person; and thoughe they Myght glutt the lawe, yet my brothers blood And theise twoe inocentts, I hope, will pleade Dyvorce of all repryvall.

Oli. Lastlye I With theys stronge proofs, cannot be argued of, Confyrme all past denyall; hys owne hand Here 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 cyrcompherence Theise prynces make to come unto the way Which lyes before theire nosses! tys lost wytt To seeke an engyne for the desperatt, Why, deathes in all he looks on; but to hope Saftye 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 & heard Tournes me like Gorgon into 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 it And hencefourthe onlye love your royall selfe. The spell is past example, & hys synne Can onlye ballance downe the wyckednes.

Gan. Butt I confes it, & the sorcerrer That made it I did murder conynglye, And at her deathe had I recompast it, I had beene kynge of Fraunce. Thys noble knave Was 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 presentlye Broken uppon the wheele. [Ex. Gan. Did. & guard. Nephewe, for you I give you freelye here the realme of Spayne And all domynions in it; for your guarde Ten thousand of our best Frenche gentyllmen. And wishe your fortunes like your valure be The best of everye lived posterytie.

Orl. Sir[106], you doe bynde me to eternall servyce Bothe in your love & justyce, for we fynde Th'instructyons that on evyll men depends Is 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]



INTRODUCTION TO THE HISTORY OF THE TRYALL OF CHEVALRY.

This play was printed in 1605, and is stated on the title-page to have been "lately acted by the right Honorable the Earle of Darby his servants." It has not been reprinted, and copies of the old quarto are exceedingly rare. There is an air of old-fashionedness about the diction and the metre that would lead us to suppose the play was written several years before the date of publication. The wearisome practice, in which the characters so freely indulge, of speaking in the third person is very characteristic of the earlier dramatists, notably of Greene. Yet it is clear, from more than one passage, that the author was acquainted with Shakespeare's historical plays. Dick Bowyer's puns on the sentinels' names (ii. 1) were certainly suggested by Falstaff's pleasantries with the recruits in Henry IV., Part II. Winstanley absurdly ascribes the piece to William Wager, who flourished (?) when Shakespeare was a child. If I were obliged to make a guess at the authorship, I would name Chettle or Munday, or both. It is not altogether improbable that the Tryall of Chevalry may be the play by Chettle and Wentworth Smith, entitled Love Parts Friendship, acted in 1602[108]. Bourbon and Rodorick are just such a pair of villains as young Playnsey and Sir Robert Westford in Chettle and Day's Blind Beggar. The low comedy in both pieces might well have come from the same hand, though Dick Bowyer is certainly more amusing than the roystering companions in the Blind Beggar.

I make no claim for high excellence on behalf of this unknown playwright. The writing is at times thin and feeble, and the versification is somewhat monotonous. But with all its faults, the language is dramatic. The writer was a contemporary of Shakespeare, and something of Shakespeare's spirit breathes through the pages of this forgotten play. Take such a speech as the following, from the second scene of the opening act:—

Must I be spokesman? Pembrooke plead for love? Whose tounge tuned to the Instruments of war Never knew straine of fancy; on my breath Affection never dwelt, but war and death! But if thou lov'dst to have thy soldiers fight, Or hearten the spent courages of men, Pembrooke could use a stile invincible. Lov'dst thou a towne, Ide teach thee how to woo her With words of thunder-bullets wrapt in fire,[109] Till with thy cannon battry she relent And humble her proud heart to stoop to thee. Or if not this, then mount thee on a steed Whose courage never awde an yron Bit, And thou shalt heare me hollow to the beast And with commanding accents master him. This courtship Pembrooke knows, but idle love, The sick-fac't object of an amorous brayne, Did never clothe mine eye-balls, never taught This toung, inurde to broyles and stratagems, The passionate language of a troubled heart: I am too blunt and rude for such nice service. Yet since my friend injoynes me to this taske, Take courage, Ile both speake, plead, woo for thee, And when I want fit words to move her mind, Ile draw my sword and sweare she must be kind.

One may smile at the notion of holloaing "to the beast," but the whole passage is vigorous, and some single lines (e.g. "The passionate language of a troubled heart") are excellent.



THE HISTORY of the tryall of CHEUALRY,

With the life and death of Caualiero Dicke Bowyer.

As it hath bin lately acted by the right Honourable the Earle of Darby his servants.

LONDON Printed by Simon Stafford for Nathaniel Butter, and are to be sold at his shop in Paules Church-Yard, neere S. Austens Gate. 1605.



The Historie of the triall of Chevalry.



Actus Primus.

[SCENE 1.]

Enter Lewes, King of France, Philip his sonne, Katharina his daughter, Roderick and Flaunders, with drum and colours, and soldiers at one dore: at the other enter Navar, Ferdinand, Bellamira, and, the Earle of Pembroke, and Burbon.

[Lew.] Duke Roderick and my noble cozen Flaunders, Are your Battalions ready for the charge?

Rod. Ten thousand men of Orleance I commaund And those are bravely marshald on the playn, Ready to be commaunded by your Highnesse.

Flaund. As many of the warlike brood of Mars Doe call me Generall: those, my gracious Lord, Together with my selfe I recommend To be commaunded by your Majesty.

Lew. Thanks, Earle of Flaunders, Duke of Orleance, thanks. What lets us that we charge not on the foe?

Nav. My Lord of Pembrooke, are your Englishmen Squadron'd with ours and ready for the charge?

Pem. The French and English make one warlike body Whereof your Highnesse is the moving head: Or peace or warre, as pleaseth you, direct.

Nav. Then war and give the signal through the host.

Lew. Navar, Navar, submission were more meete Then to adde bloud to wrong.

Nav. What wrong, King Lewes? The Kingdome of Navar we will acknowledge To hold of none but of the King of Kings.

Lew. Three hundred yeres prescriptions on our sides; So long thy Ancestors by fealty Have helde thy Kingdome of the Crowne of France.

Pem. Talke not of yeres, yeres limit not a Crowne; There's no prescription to inthrall a King. He finds it written in the Rowles of time Navar's a Kingdome solely absolute, And by collusion of the Kings of France, The people speaking all one mother toung, It hath bin wrested for a Royalty Untruly due unto the Crowne of France. That Pembrook speaks the truth, behold my sword, Which shall approve my words substantiall.

Rod. Pembrooke, you are too plaine in your discourse.

Bur. I tell thee, Rodoricke, Pembrooke soldier-like Hath truely opened what ten thousand lives Will hardly doe if warre be made the Judge.

Rod. If war be Judge? Why, shallow-witted Burbon, Who shall decide this difference but war? Hath not the Judge put on his Scarlet Robe? Is not the field prepar'd? our men in armour? The trumpets ready for the sound of death, And nothing hinders us but our owne words? Leave idle parley, my dread soveraigne Lord, And soone resolve the Duke in fire and smoke That he maintaines a title false and forg'd, And that Navar is a usurping Lord.

Na. On that Ile hazzard all these valiant lives. Sound Drums and Trumpets! make King Lewes know He makes his best friend prove his greatest foe.