_Buss_. I wishe myne eares had to the pillorye Payd tribute rather then let in this sounde. Unfortunate _Orlando_! thy fayrest hopes, Like to a blaze of artifyciall fire, No sooner have a beinge but expyre. _Did_. What! passyonate in rhyme? I must be taught To give attendance on the full-fedd guest![83] ... ... ... ... ... _Bus_. You may be dambd For useing sorcerye upon the kynge. That naturell heate, which is the cause and nurse Of younge desyers, his pallsye hath shooke of, And all the able facultyes of man Are fled his frost of age to that extreame Theres not enough to cherrish a desyer Left in his saplesse nerves. _Did_. In this your worshypp Gives my hopes illustratyon. Age must doate To a Judgments dearth that may be cheated on Yet that cheate rest unquestyond. Doe you heare? The kynge is beinge maryed to your aunte Hathe bounde hys fortunes to my lord, and he Will, like a ryver that so long retaynes The oceans bounty that at last it seemes To be it selfe a sea, receyve and keepe The comon treasure; and in such a floode, Whose thycknes would keepe up what naturullye Covetts the center, can you hope Ile synke? _Bus_. Hell take thy hopes and thee! _Did_. But I would have You understand that I may rise agayne Without the catchinge of a rotten boarde To keepe bare life and mysserye together To fyght eche other. _Bus_. Furyes fryght thy soule! Is a good mans ill fate thy nourishment? Noble _Orlando_, what omynous fatell starre Ruld thy nativitie that fire must be Strooke out of Ice to ruyne all thy hopes: This marriage is their grave. _Did_. Sir, I may rayse A broken state by service. _Bus_. Yes, of the devyll To whom thou art a factor. Slave, 'tis thou That hast undoone my father and increast His evyll inclinatyons. I have seene Your conference with witches, night-spell knaves, Connivynge mountebanks and the damned frye Of cheating mathematicks. And is this The issue of your closse contryvances[84]? If in thys p[ro]myst throng of future ill There may be found a way to anye good Of brave _Orlando_ the great palladyne, My constant industry shall tyer the day And outwatche night but I will fynde it for hym; And yf to doe hym good-- _Enter La Fue_. _Fue_. Where's _Didier_? _Did_. Here, thou contemptyble thynge that never werte So free as to put on thyne owne ill hatt; Thou that hast worne thy selfe and a blewe coate To equall thryddbareness and never hadst Vertue inough to make thee [be] preferrd Before aught but a cloak bagge,--what to me? _Fue_. The wishe of poxe enough to make thee all One entire scabb. Dost thou abuse thy elders? _Did_. I cry your reverence mercye, I confes You are more antique. _Fue_. Antycke in thy face! My lord shall knowe. _Did_. But pray thee let me fyrst Knowe what my lorde would have me knowe by thee.