_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.