_Did_. Good, good, you stretche a foule comparysson The best that I have hearde. But be assurd I am no scarabb for a castrells breakfast. _Gan_. Why, you are growne a desperatt darringe rouge, A roaugue of noyse and clamor, are you not? _Did_. And in dyspyghte of all your fearfull bells Of greatnes and aucthorytie, will tourne heade, Fly in thye bossome, and so stynge thee then That thou shalt curse thy beinge. [_Exit Didier_. _Gan_. Thys is well, Exceedinge well: upbrayded by my slave Armed by my trust agaynst me! I coulde nowe Wishe a stronge packthread had stytchd up my lips When I made thys roague inmate of my breast. My seryous counsaylls and's owne servyces He sells like goods at outcryes--"Who gives most?" Oh what dull devyll manadgd my weake braynes When first I trusted hym; Harte, I have made My counsaylls my foes weapons, wherewith he May wound me deeplye. Suer he has reveald My purposse and reward to poyson hym: So I bestryde a myne which to my ruyne Wants but a sparke,--and farewell, _Ganelon_! Nowe the poxe take my harte for trustynge hym! What a brave noble creature were a man ... ... ... ... ... see and so prevent ... ... ... ... ... nay of his slave. _Enter Richard_. _Ric_. Health attend you! _Gan_. O my dearest sweete, Thy presence makes thee master of thy wish; For in it rests my health and happynes. Howe does my best friend? faythe, you look most sadd, And we have bothe full cause. My syster's deathe Hath, like the moone in opposytion, Put out the eie of heaven. But doth the emperour Styll keep her in hys armes. _Ric_. Yes, styll and styll; Nay with such vyolence love seemes to growe And flourishe most in deathe. _Mesantius_ wrathe, That tyed dead to the livinge, seemes in hym The joy of all man's wishes. Soothe he is Anything now but famous _Charlymayne_. _Gan_. I cannot blame hym; tis a furye man Can neither tame nor conquer. But, dear frende, Is there no meanes to come to the dead queene Out of the emperours presence? _Ric_. Sir, theres none; He hath her evermore within hys armes, And when a sleepes your syster _Gabriella_ Or the oulde Bishopp _Turpin_ doe attend her. _Gan_. I, there you name a newe afflyctyon, That syster is an ulcer in my bloode: Howe doe you with her doatinge passyons? _Ric_. Sleyght them beyond your wishes. _Gan_. Thou dost amaze me with thy noble vertue, And thence I honor thee. As for that mayd Still let her frantique love receyve repulse And crowne thy contynence; for though I was Content the queene should stray, yet thys[90] I would not have to fall for chrystendome. _Ric_. You neede not feare me: if not contynence, Yet myne owne will is armour strong enoughe. _Gan_. I know't; and here she comes. _Enter Gabriella_. _Gab_. Brother, God save you!--0 my noble _Richarde_, You make me oulde ithe mornynge of my yeares. Shall styll your winter nypp me? _Gan_. What doe you meane? _Gab_. T'express a love thats good and vertuous.