_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_.