_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_.