_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.