_Bus_. Shunne not hys syghte that dothe adore your syghte. How fares the Empresse? Like to a bloweinge rose Nypt with a colde frost, will she styll keepe in Cyrckled with ice? _Ber_. I knowe not nor I care not. _Bus_. But you can guesse.--Or in the frosts Dyspighte Will she blowe out? _Ber_. Sir, y'are unmannerlie To stay and question me: I must be gone. _Bus_. Take my harte with you. _Ber_. He whose harte and tonge Runne one selfe course shall seldome fynde the way To a preferrment. _Bus_. Sfoote, doe you thynke your love Such a preferrment? nay then, fare you well. _Ber_. Vyllanous man! [_Ex. Bertha_. _Bus_. Well, now unto my father whom I knowe Hates me but for my goodnes; and althoughe I cannot blame the Empresse, yet on hym Ile vent myne honest spleene, and he shall knowe Vertue at porest hath yet one advocate, Though muche too meane to helpe her.--See, a comes. _Enter Ganelon_. _Gan_. The Empresse and younge _Richard_ are in league, Arme knytt and harte knytt with the fervencye That no joy can exceede. Heaven blesse the mixture! --But stay; whose thys? O my curyous sonne, What newse with you, Sir? _Bus_. Sir, though your emynence may guyld your vyce And greatnes make your ills seeme gloryous To some too farre beneathe you, that neare looke Into the chynckes and crannyes of the state, Yet, Sir, with reverence, knowe you have doone ill To crosse _Orlandos_ fayre successyon By thys unequall maryadge. _Gan_. Arte growne madd? Thoughe I neare knew thee muche opprest with witt, I did not thynke thee such a foe to sence To speake with suche a daringe impudence. _Bus_. Howe's that? _Gan_. Thus and observe me. As you love the cubboarde Wherein your calves brayns are lockt up for breakfast, Whenere agayne thou shalt but dare to play The dogge and open thus when I am present Without my spetyall lycence and comand, Ile vexe thee so with punishment and shame That life shalbe thy torment. Hence, thou slave, Of no more shyrtts, than soules, and they consistinge Of equall foulness! hence, I say! Ignorance Shall not excuse thee thus agayne offendinge. _Bus_. Preposterous! I walke for want of spyrrytt. [_Exit La Busse_. _Gan_. Pyttie of follye! wherefore shoulde thys boy, Thys thynge of too nyce contyence, nay my sonne, Troble hym selfe with any acte of myne As if they helde proportion with hys state, Wytt or condytion? Such thyngs are swayd by chaunce: And naughts more arrogant than Ignorance.-- But here comes he that hathe brayne to plott And spyrrytt to acte. _Enter Didier_. Howe is it _Didier_? _Did_. As you comanded, Sir. _Gan_. Hast doone it then? _Did_. And without all suspytion? _Gan_. Halfe my soule, Let me imbrace thee. All my cares and feares Thou hast dyspeyrct for ever; from hys deathe My future honors take a glorious byrthe. _Enter La Fue_.