_Gab_. Spleene shall not taynte my goodnes So muche as to account your errors follyes; But, I proteste, were you another woman, I should be bouldlye seryous and tell you That all the wytts of chrystendome are spente In stryppinge the corrupted harte of smoothnes: And yet you thynke a smoothe perswadinge boy Beares all hys daunger in hys cheeke and eie! Shall weomen trust a sweete and courtlye face When they themselves deceyve most by the face? Why serves our owne dissemblinge arte if we Cannot suspect when others doe dissemble? _Eld_. True, daughter; love is like the weassell that went into the meale-chamber; it comes in a littill chyncke no bygger then our eie syghte, but haveinge a whyle fedd on imagynatyon dreames sonnetts to the tune of syghes and heyhos; it growes plumpe and full of humor; it asks a crannye as bygg as a conye borrowe to gett out agayne. _Gab_. And wherefore then should I trust in the face? Mother, tys true your sonne, my cruell brother, The toe much wise, toe subtyll _Ganelon_, Onlye withdrawes _Richards_ affectyon. Even to my selfe a swore a should not love me; And who that knowes hym, knowes he is not ledd By the charme of hys voyce onlye? _Eld_. Trust me, wenche, Twas tyrannye to speake so; but in thys Where lyethe our preventyon? _Gab_. Onlye thus: You must by all meanes styrre dissentyon Twixte _Rychard_ and my brother, tourne their loves To mortall hate and emulatyon; Which but effected, _Richard_ suer will love Bee't but alone to crosse hys enemye. _Eld_. Content thy selfe, gyrle. There is not the malytious creature nowe liveinge, no, not a venemous and craftie stepdame, nor a tale-carr[y]inge, truthe-pervertinge gossypp cann make theire seedes of enmytie poyson the love of parentts, husbands, neighbours or good fellowshypp sooner or more effectuallye then I will crosse theire frendshypp. But to better purpose-- _Gab_. Peace, no more: here comes the aged byshopp The kyngs inamord darlinge. _Enter Turpin_. _Tur_. Best ladye, well encounterd: howe runns chaunce With your deare sonne, my good lord _Ganelon_? _Eld_. Better then envye wishes, gratyous sir. Lost from the courte he left behynde hym there All cares and all vexatyons: nowe he sleepes, Eats, drynks and laughes, and, but when he dothe sweate, Moves not hys hatt tyll bedd tyme; dothe not fawne, Nor croutche, nor crynge, nor startche his countenance; Is not tane up with other mens affayres But onlye looks to's owne comodytie. _Tur_. Hys chaunge was passynge happye then, it seemes. _Gab_. Bothe for hymselfe and hys; for, greate sir, nowe He onlye wayts on hys partycullar, Seeks from a cuntrye comonwealth to rayse All hys to cuntrye fortunes; which, they say, Is safest, surest, and least envyed. _Tur_. Why, prettie Ladye, you'le not leave the courte? _Eld_. Yes, gratyous lorde; I'me sent to bringe her thence. Our pore retyred famylie must plante Theire braunches in the broade ayre, not be plashd[91] Or propt agaynst the walls of pallaces.