Chapter VII: Part 7

_Char_. Cossen, no more; I know your modesty. ... ... ... your languadge; hees my foe That next solycytts me for _Ganelon_.

_Bus_. O doe not make me, sir, be impyous, For shoulde your breathe crushe me to attomyes, Yet whylst my memorye can call hym father I must invocke you for hym.

_Char_. Which to prevent Take my last resolutyon, & from it Swearve not in thyne alleagance: when thou shalt Meete me uppon a way was never usd By horse nor man, and thou thy selfe dost ryde On neyther horsse, mare, asse, & yet thy beast An usuall thynge for burthen, thou thy selfe Neyther uncloathd nor naked, & shalt brynge Thy greatest frend & greatest enemye Coopld for thy companyons; then I vowe To doe thy father honor, but tyll then My mallyce hangs about hym.--Come, coossen, attend us.

[_Exe. Char., Rich_.

_Bus_. Then dye, pore _Ganelon_. When I shall meete The kynge on no hye way, when I shall ryde Uppon no beast & yet a beast of burthen, Be neyther nakt nor cloathed, in my hande My greatest frende & greatest enemye; And but then get his favor. There is no sphynxe That can absolve thys ryddell: well, tys decreed Ile breake my brayne but Ile performe the deede.

_Did_. Sir, would it were in me to helpe your fortune.

_Bus_. It was in you to bringe us to thys fortune. But I am charmd from anger: onlye thus My father badd me tell you that he hathe Not many howers to live, & dothe desyer To parte in peace with all men, even with you Whom he hathe nowe forgiven hartylie; And if you please to vissytt him you may Fynde love without captitulatyon [sic].

_Did_. Sir, Ile attend hym. [_Ex. La Busse_. Yet I've heard a tale Of a feirce snake that wounded by a swayne Rememberd it for twentye yeares together And at the last revendgd it; so may he. I, but another tale tells of an asse Which haveinge throwne hys cruell ryder wente In pyttie to the surgeon, who recurd The sycklie man & reconcyld the asse. Why may not _Ganelon_ be like the asse And thys fayre messadge like the curynge surgeon? Ile trye it; synce _Orlando_ is unsuer, Tys _Ganelon_ from whence may come my cure.

[_Ex. Didier_.

[SCENE 2.]

_Enter Ganelon, Eldegrad & Gabriella_.

_Gan_. Good mother, syster, deare spyrrytts, doe not haunte me: I will not from eternytie beleive That _Richard_ is unfaythfull.

_Eld_. No, runne on, Swallowe thy shames like full bytts tyll they choake you And make the people prophesye that you Shalbe undoone by your false _Ganimede_.

_Gan_. A poxe uppon the people! Would you have Me to depend uppon theire orackles?

_Gab_. Depend on your owne goodnes; doe not trust A traytor in your bossome. _Richard_, they say Hathe begd your honor and your offyces: Hes counte of _Poyteers_, marquysse of _Saluca_.

_Eld_. Cunstable & master of the ordnance.

_Gan_. It cannot be nor will I credyt it.

_Eld_. Then perishe in your dullnes. Nay, sir, more; It was hys earnest suyt to the emperoure To be dyvorst your presence: I can prove it.

_Gab_. And I that he by secret charmes hathe sought To make spoyle of myne honor, but in vayne Doe I complayne where theres no profyttinge.

_Fue_. In the way of ordynarye curtesye I doe salute you, & notwithstandinge my greatnes grace you to give you thys, &, ladye, you thys. [_Gives letters_.

_Gan_. Why, howe nowe? what motyons thys? Is the knave falne out with hys five sences.

_Fue_. _Ganelon_, no, but in love with my knowne vertues.--Hould, theres your yarde [_gives hys coate_] & a halfe of somers wearynge. Frends we mett, frends we parte: if you please me I may prayse you, if you seeke me you may fynd me, a loves littill that loves longe; and so I leave you to the tuytion.

_Gan_. Heyday, the knaves lunatycke! syrha sott ... ... ... ... ...

[_Fue_.] ... ... Tys daungerous for your shynns; take heede of my[schief]. Favorytts are not without their steccados, imbrocados & pun[to]-reversos[96]. No more but so: you have no honor, no offyce, littill land, lesse money, least wytt. Y'are a pore man & I pyttie you. When next you see me tys in the emperours bossome.

[_Ex. La Fue_.

_Gan_. Whats thys? scornd of my drudge, mockt & abusd? Foote! I will throwe my dager after hym.

_Eld_. But thys is nothynge to the heape of scornes Will flowe on you hereafter. What says your letter?

_Gan_. Ile tell you presentlye.

_Eld_. What a madd tyrant is mans stronge beleife! Makinge hym hunte hys proper myschiefe fourthe, Takinge delight in desperatyon. O theres no foe to our credulytie.

_Gan_. O mother, yes; _Aimons_ youngest sonne _Richards_ a slave above credulytie. Why, alls confyrmd here underneathe hys hande; A dothe not blussh to write to me a hathe All honors that I challendge; good sweet, looke, [_Eldegrad reads_. Read & recorde a vyllayne. What speaks youres?

_Gab_. No lesse than I imagynd, fearfull seidge Agaynst my name & honor. [_Ganelon reads_.

_Eld_.--So, it taks; Thys polytycke trycke, wenche, hathe set up the walle Of stronge partytyon twixt theym. Hence theire loves Shall never meete agayne.

_Gan_. O monstrous vyllayne, wouldst thou make her whore? I tell you, shallowe braynd unfaythfull hynde, Th'adst better have kyst _Juno_ in a cloude And beene the dadd to Centaurs.

_Eld_. Save your wrathe: Tys fytt that nowe your wisdome governe you.

_Gan_. Mother, it shall; I am not yet past all Recoverye.

_Enter La Busse_.

Nowe, sir, what newes at courte?

_Bus_. Strange & unwholsome; you are still in fallinge; Alls given your frend to be your enemye.

_Gan_. I knowe the full relatyon. You did not seeke By basse ways my repryvall?

_Bus_. God forbydd! I spoake but what myght suyte your noblenes.

_Gan_. What aunswere made the emperoure?

_Bus_. That when I shall Meete hym uppon a way was never usde By horse nor man, & I myselfe to ryde Neyther on horse, mare, asse, & yet the beast An usuall thynge for burthen, & withall Come neyther nakd nor cloathed, & doe bringe My greatest frend & greatest enemye, You then shall have hys favor, not before.

_Gan_. A myght in one worde playnlye have sayd "never" And saved much cyrcomstance. What sayd _Richard_?

_Bus_. Faythe, seemd to speake, but utterd nothynge.

_Elde_. Why that exprest hym bravelye.

_Gan_. A thynks me fallinge & avoyds my swindge Least I should fall on hym, nor helps me forwarde To dryve away the feare of douted ruyne. Even thus doe beasts avoyde the shaken tree And browze uppon the twygs that gave them shelter. Myce be more sotyable; they keepe the house Tyll everye roome be fyerd about theire eares, But frends will vanyshe at reporte of daunger. Where shall I fyxe my trust? My woes are nowe Beyond my synns, yet Ile nor bend nor bowe.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE 3.]

_Enter Orlando, Reinaldo, Oliver_.

_Orl_. Pray, thee, good coosse, perswade not my beleife; I cannot stoope[97] the harte of _Ganelon_. My crosse unhappye fortune hathe decreed A never shalbe conquerd; any ells, Should a but vowe to conquer 50 worlds, I would beleive a myght doo't: onlye I Shall never master a dejected slave.

_Rei_. Indeede tys but your passyon so perswads you.

_Oli_. Be not fantastyque; that which we perswade Hathe bothe an eassye and a certayne way, Nor can it yeild to you a syngle joye But muche redoobled sweetnes. And behould Here comes the newe made marquesse.

_Enter Richard_.

Good sweete lorde, Give my free speche suer passadge. ... ... ... ... ...

_0l_. Foote! thys newe pyle of honor walks as if A would knocke patts with heaven.

_Rich_. Tys not unlike Your owne true pryde dothe make you speculous.

_Rei_. Tys farre shorte of youre sweete harte _Ganelons_.

_Rich_. Sir, hees a noble gentyllman.

_Oli_. A Baboone, A verye windye caske of emptynes.

_Rich_. I wonder y'are so impudent. My frende Hath vertues lefte: if you had eyther shame Or charytie you would accuse your lybells. But as the ravens which in _Arabia_ live, Haveinge flowne all the feylde of spyces ore, Seaze on a stynkinge carkasse, so doe you Swiftlye leape over a most plentyous vale Of good examples which grace _Ganelon_ And fasten on the scandall which was formd By a lewde treacherous knave to gett rewarde.

_Oli_. I give your aplycatyon the broade lye.

_Rich_. And tys thy last foule languadge.
[_Offer to Drawe_.

_Orl_. Hould! who drawes must be myne enemye.

_Rich_. I'm easlye chydd from tumulte, but, deare Sir, Tell me in pryvatt howe you dare maynteyne it. [_Whisper_.

_Enter alofte[98] Ganelon_.

_Gan_.--Yonder a stands consultinge with my foes. Perhapps thys present mynute he reveales My systers whoredome, or to take away All feare of my revendge he now contryves That my sadd deathe may fynishe my disgrace. Myne eies are dazeld, but it is no wonder, For in that glassye fellowe I dyserne The true reflectyon of my fate & feares. Tys he, tys he; there wants but a good crossbowe[99] To levell at hys harte nowe. I began A littill synce to chide my rashe beleife And so was readye to tourne foole agayne; But I am nowe deliverd & hencefourthe, If wisdome or occassyon doe me righte, I will determine never to mystake. Heres a full proofe of what my mother spake.

_Oli_. As I respect myne honor I will meete you.

_Rei_. Are you agreed?

_Oli_. Yes, sir.

_Orl_. Away and shape our purposse.

[_Ex. all but Richard_.

_Rich_. Tys put to tryall; but I doe suspecte Theire whysprynge plotts. Thys equall hazard may Shadowe the meanynge of some certayne danger, The rather synce _Reinaldo_ seconds it. I must see _Ganelon_ & speake theise douts: This quarrell most concerns hym, for the wronge And capytall abuse toucht onlye hym. I gave a constant promyse never more To vyssytt hym without the emperours leave, And yet I will adventure. He may guesse At secrett workings & confyrme my feare. Thys nighte I will adventure, & obay As he shall fashyion me to meete or stay.

[_Ex_.

_Actus 5_.

[SCENE 1.]

_Enter Eldegrade & Didier_.

_Eld_. What, have you vyssyted my greived sonne?

_Did_. Madam, I have.

_Eld_. And you are reconcyld? you see hys harte Is made of meltinge waxe & not of marble. Faythe, twas a harde parte; you have brought us lowe, Lowe as the earthe we treade on, but Ile ceasse Further reitteratyon: synce hees pleasd To burye all, I wilbe patyent; You knowe I ever lovd you & you have Doone me most worthye, honest offyces.

_Did_. And many more will dedycatt unto you; My lorde & I am reconcyld at full And have disburdend all our greivances. I doe confes I was bewytcht with fate But will redeeme myne error; synce I knowe He loves me nowe more then he did before, I will deserv't so bravely you shall call And sweare I am a noble instrument.

_Eld_. You trust hys protestatyons then?

_Did_. Madam, or ells I were an Infidell.

[_Eld_.] ... ... ... ... ... And I could chyde my love that pytties you. He dothe dissemble with you; you are lost. Of myne owne knowlege he hathe layd suche baytts You cannot live twoe howers. Goe where you will, He hathe a plott that haunts you. If you can Fynde for your selfe any preventyon, Use it with quycke indevor; for I knowe The thunder speaks that presentlye will splytt you.

_Did_. You doe amaze me.

_Eld_. And like the chaesd Roe stand in that amaze Tyll the hounds catche you. What I speake Is to prevent your present tragedye And to blott murder from my _Ganelon_. Be wise. [_Ex. Eldegrad_.

_Did_. Am I then noosd! will styll my villanous wytts Betray me to mysfortune, am I lymed! What shall I doe? flight will not nowe avayle me. I knowe hys projects like hys mallyce runns To everye place of hoped securytie. I have't: thys key, which I have choycelye kepte (Longe synce by me most fynelye counterfaytt) Enters hys chambers & hys cabanett And everye place retyrd. I am resolvde; Thoughe I had thousand ways to scape besyde, Yet I will stay onlye to murther hym. Within hys lodginge will I hyde me safe, And when sleepe lulls hym--farwell _Ganelon_! He shall not outlive mydnyght: here Ile lye, And thoughe I followe nexte thys lorde shall dye. [_Hydes hym_.

_Enter Ganelon_.

_Gan_. My plotts are layd most certayne & no fatte Can interposse betwixte theym: _Didier_ dyes And so shall _Richarde_. O the wearye thoughts That keepe a daylie senate in my braynes, Repeat unto me what I loathe to heare, A frends disloyaltye. Be wysser you That undertake the greate & hallowed leauge Of frendlye comforte. Scoole your ryotous bloode And teache your fancyes Wisdome; be not drawne With suche a frayle unproffytable thynge As face or person when you chusse a frende; Th'are all deceytfull. Would my funerall rytts Were as I wishe provyded, to dispeirse A warnynge by my horryble abuse, And I would dye to morrowe. I lament That such another pyttied foole as I Should be amongst the liveinge.--Harke! who knocks? [_Richard knocks_. Aunswere, what are you?

_Rich_. Open to your frende.

_Gan_. O my starrs, tys he! can myschiefe thus Come flyinge to my bossome?--Sir, I come To open twoe dores, thys & thy false bossome. [_Stabbs hym_.

_Rich_. O y'ave slayne me! tell me, cruell Sir, Why you have doone thys that myne inocent soule May teache repentance to you-- [_Dies_.

_Gan_. Speake it out. What, not a worde? dumbe with a littill blowe? You are growne statlye, are you? tys even so: You have the trycke of mightie men in courte To speake at leasure & pretend imployment. Well, take your tyme; tys not materyall Whether you speake the resydue behynde Nowe or at doomes day. If thy comon sence Be not yet parted from thee, understande I doe not cursse[100] thee dyinge, because once I loved thee dearlye; & collect by that There is no devyll in me nor in hell That could have flesht me to thys violent deathe, Hadst thou beene false to all the worlde but me.-- But he is nowe past thynkinge on for that, And were he buryed all were perfytted.

[_Didier stepps out_.

_Did_. What will you say if I become the sexton?

_Gan_. That after that thou mayst hang thy selfe ithe bellropps. --What makst thou heare?

_Did_. I will assuer you, Sir, No legge to your wise lordshypp for my life, Thyngs standinge as they doe.

_Gan_. Verye good, Sir, Y'are wondrous merry.

_Did_. Can you blame me, Sir, When I may treade upon myne enemye? I am your condemd creature, I am lost.

_Gan_. ... ... ... ... ... Howe camst thou hyther?

_Did_. Why, looke you, Sir, by thys, [_Shoes the key_. Thys that Ive kepte as a stronge cordyall Agaynst your vyllanyes. Nay, behould it well, For as I live tys counterfayte.

_Gan_. What a leaden-skulld slave he maks me.-- Why, art thou doutfull of me? faythe I love thee.

_Did_. Yes, as the devyll does freirs holye water. Come, I doe knowe your practyse gaynst my life, And ment my selfe t'have easd myne injuryes; But nowe thys act hathe given you to the lawe And saved me from all daunger.

_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.

_Rei_. Come be more temperd, you shall see from thys Sprynge pleasure that you wishe for. _Olyver_ Shall instantlye upbrayd false _Ganelon_ With _Rychards_ muche unworthynes.

_Oli_. Thats decreed For in such tearms I meane to sett hym fourthe As shall even burst hys gall with agonye: Nay, it shall make hym never darre t'apeare Where men resorte, or knowe ought but hys feare.

_Orl_. You have lardge promysses, but acts as slowe As dyalls hands that are not seene to goe.

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE 3.]

_Enter Didier with a letter_.

_Did_. My cares & feares are past, but _Ganelons_ Thys letter woulde revyve if t'were reveald, Nay begett newe ones to hym of suche wayghte That he must synke beneathe theym. Thys I founde (Mongst other thyngs) in haplesse _Richards_ pockett When I interrd hym, subscribd by _Ganelon_, Whereby's owne hand would leade hym to the blocke Should I discover it; for heres contaynd The kyngs abuse & _Gabriellas_ whoreinge. But I am nowe beforehand: to hym selfe Ile give thys letter; so begett[101] in hym A fyrme beleife of myne integrytie Which nowe goes upryghte, does not halte betweene Preferment & disgrace; for, come what will, I am all _Ganelons_ & wilbe styll.

_Enter Ganelon_.

And see, he comes. My Lord--

_Gan_. O _Dydier_, Resolve me where & howe thou hast disposd The most false bodye of my falsest frende.

_Did_. The ravenous earthe, that eatts what it hathe fedd, Hathe swallowd it.

_Gan_. But where? what peice of earthe Couldst thou fynde badd enough to hyde hys bones. If in some flowrye meade th'ast hym interrd The poyson of hys synns will choake the sprynge, And, if thou hast not layd hym deepe enoughe, Corrupt the ayre & cause a generall plauge.

_Did_. Bothe those are, Sir, prevented by the dytche, Whose deepe banks seeme to be halfe bottomlesse, Where he is layd a rottinge.

_Gan_. Without all helpe! counsayle in thys were daungerous.

_Did_. Sir, I was fryer & clarke & all my selfe; None mournd but nyghte, nor funerall tapers bore But erringe starres.

_Gan_. And they did erre indeed To shewe their lights at hys curst funerall. Did not a dog bewray thee?

_Did_. Baw, waw, waw! Sir, troble not your selfe With any doute oth' secrecye was usd In actinge your comand. And, Sir, because I will not have it rest within my power At anye tyme to wronge or to traduce Your honour by a probable suspytion, Receyve thys letter which atts buryall I founde in's pockett. Sir, it might concerne you, [_Give the letter & Ganelon reads_. And deeplye toe, if it should be reveald. --It calls up all hys bloode into hys face And muche dystempers hym.

_Gan_. Deathe! I am lost in treason: my fordgd hand Hathe whored my liveinge syster & displays All my basse plotts agaynst the emperoure. By heaven tys false, fordgd, false as heresye!

_Did_. How! a fordgd hand?

_Gan_. Yes, _Didier_. When was it dated, trow? Torment! synce my restraynt of libertie! Good gentyll patyence manadge me a whyle, Let me collect. Certaynlye _Rychards_ harte Coulde not but doubte thys charrackter, & in The strengthe of doute he came to me last nyghte To be resolvd; or ells why should he beare Suche daunger in hys pockett? Admyttinge thys, What followes then? Why, if that were the ende Of's vysytatyon, then it needs must followe That thys prevayld not with hym. And what then? Why, then my syster, as all weomen ells, Seeinge her selfe neglected in her lust, Thought any ill way to obtayne it just.

_Did_. A strange presumptyon.

_Gan_. Yet a lyttill further. It is resolvd that my systers onlye ende Was to enjoy _Rychard_ unlawfullye: Howe might a fallinge out twyxt hym & me Assyst the ende (for such a thynge she causd)? How? What a dull slave am I! why twas as muche As the untyinge of hys codpeyce poynte, Almost the _rem in re_! for whyle he stoode Constant to my dyrectyons all was well, But, those abandond, then,--harte! I am madd: I pray thee, _Diddier_, helpe me to cursse Me & my rashnes, that so curbd my reason I would not heare hym speake but put hym strayght To everlastynge sylence.

_Did_. No, my lorde, Letts cursse the lust of woman.

_Gan_. Well rememberd.

_Did_. And yet there is a heavye one prepard To meete them where they act it in the darke.

_Gan_. True, _Didier_, there is so, and from that May penytence want power to rescue theym.

_Did_. Be there a dearthe of arte to helpe complexion, And for theym many housses of correctyon.

_Gan_. And if it be possyble o let the Bedle Not with theire money but hys owne whypp medle, And lashe theym soundlye.

_Did_. No, thats not so good: May all theire soundnes tourne toth poxes foode.

_Gan_. May constables to cadges[102] styll comend theym And theire knowne foes, age & ill cloathes attend theym.

_Did_. May they want skyll to banyshe theire breathes stynke, And onlye Barbers potyons be their drynke. May theire sore wast theire lynnen into lynte For medlinge with other stones then flynte.

_Gan_. And to conclude thys hartylie breathd cursse; Theire lives beinge monstrous, let theire ends be worsse.

_Did_. Amen.

_Enter Gabriella_.

_Gab_. Amen to what?

_Did_. Faythe, madam, a was prayinge for hys syster.

_Gan_. O you are wellcome.--Worthye frend, withdrawe.-- [_Exit Didier_. Nowe my rare pollytycke syster, what will please you?

_Gab_. My rare ingenyous brother, why doe you aske?

_Gan_. Ile tell thee, woman, & observe it well, Thou shalt remayne the porest wretche alyve, The most forsaken of delight & pleasure That ever breathd a myserable life, If I may knowe what pleasses you. Beware And answere wiselye: you are leaveinge nowe All that hathe tyckld your insatyatt bloode, When you resolve my questyon: I will strypp Your sweete contents of to the naked soule Before you parte. Doe you laughe? by heaven I will.

_Gab_. What brave exployts youle doe uppon the sodayne!

_Gan_. If you account theym so tys well, tys well.

_Gab_. Fye, fye, what moves you to thys froward wellcome?

_Gan_. Calst it allreadye frowarde? shallowe foole, I should salute thee with my daggers poynte And never make thys parley; but I'me kynde, And youle confes it when you reade that letter. You knowe the charackter & the whole scope Ere you peruse one worde, I make no questyon. But reade it, doe, that whyle you seeme to reede You may make readye for another worlde. Why doe you studye? flatter not your selfe With hope of an excusse.

_Gab_. You are not madd!

_Gan_. Yes, foorsoothe, I will confes my selfe emptye of sence, Dealinge with suche a wyttie sparke as you. Theres no comparysson: a sparke, sayd I? I meant a bonefyer made of wytt & lust; One nourryshes another. Have you doone? Does any thynge you reade allay your coldnes.

_Gab_. You thynke thys letter myne?

_Gan_. I doe indeede, And will with horror to thy wanton thoughts Make thee confes it, that thy soule beinge easd May fly away the sooner.

_Gab_. What you--

_Gan_. Fond woman, doe not trust me, there is deathe And undyssembld ruyne in my words. Make your prayrs quycklye.

_Gab_. I protest unto you, As I have contyence & a soule to save--

_Gan_. That's a fantastycke oathe; proceede, proceede.

_Gab_. I did not wryte thys letter nor have seene _Richard_ synce it was wrytten: what was doone He & my mother wrought it.

_Gan_. Shall I beleive you? are you vertuous?

_Gab_. Examyne but the ende & then adjudge me.

_Gan_. Then my suspytyon proves a false conceyte, And I am wondrous glad to have it so Because it proves you honest. I am nowe Agayne resolvd that _Richard_ was a vyllayne, And therefore am I gladd agayne, because He hathe what he deservd & has no more.

_Gab_. He did deserve your seryous contempt And is rewarded with it.

_Gan_. And with deathe.

_Gab_. Ha! oh is he murderd then?

_Gan_. Does that amaze you? Yes I have murderd hym & it becomes The gloryous parte of conquerynge my selfe, To say hereafter, when I would relate A storye worth attentyon, that thys hande, Thys constant ryght hand, did deliver me In spyghte of dottage & my naturall pittye.

_Gab_. O you are falne into the bloodyest cryme That ever tyrant threatned.

_Gan_. Idle feare.

_Gab_. Come, y'are a vyllayne & most bloodye slave, One that your spotted synns make odyous, For _Rychard_ was all good & vertuous. Dispayre nowe maks me honest & Ile speake Truthe with true testymonye, for here it comes.

_Enter Eldegrade_.

We twoe contryved & wrytt these charracters, By Heaven we did; twas onlye we that spreade The poyson of debate & stryfe betwyxt you. On us, base man, tourne thy most bloodye edge, For thou hast slayne the noblest inocent.

_Gan_. Thyne owne invockt cursse ceaze thee,

[_He runns at Gab., and Elde. stepps between?, & he kills both_.

_Gab_. Thys should have ceazd me sooner; let me dye. Thy pardon, _Richard_: love thats too vyolent Is evermore with some straunge myscheifs spentt. [_Dies_.

_Eld_. Foule desperatyon ceaze thee, & whats worsse Dye with thy mothers last breathd heavye cursse. [_Dyes_.

_Gan_. They have left a darknes so extreame behynde I cannot fynde a prayre to blesse theire soules. See here then, polytycke creature, subtyll man, Here see thy myscheife. Irreligious foole, That makst it contyence onlye when thou leavest Synns of preferment unaccomplyshed, Thou that repynst agaynst thy starrs & lucke When heaven prevents the bassnes of thy gayne; Littill thynkst thou wherefore thy gaynes will serve, Nor wherefore thy close pollycie should fayle Tyll thou forsakst it, & then, wretched clay, Thou fyndst a horsse & dogge thy betters: they Dye unperplext with sence of dyinge, thou Seest what thy sence abhorrs thy falts allowe. I feele thee comeinge, my distracted chaunge, Like an ill-favord hangman: pray thee strike, Aproatche & doe thyne offyce.

_Enter Oliver_.
What arte thou?

_Oli_ One that will prove you _Rychard_ is a cowarde.

_Gan_. Good darringe tonge, be not toe desperatt. He was your deare frend, was he not?

_Oli_ Yes, had he not beene pretyous unto you, But hys muche faythe to you did make me hate hym, And he had felt it had he darrd th'incounter.

_Gan_. Pray, no more, & worthy Sir, be boulde To say here stands the most afflycted soule That ever felt the mysseryes of byrthe. Make me beleive my plaugs are infynett That I may so desyer to leave my fleshe And be deliverd from theym. Wherefore, looke you: It is my mother & my systers deade, I was theire murtherer; goe tell the worlde: That paper will give satisfactyon.

[_Oliver taks the letter & reads_.

_Enter Didier_.

O you are wellcome; are you an offycer? The captayne of the guard, I thynke. Come on: Be not affrayd, arest me, Ile submytt. Nor doe reproatche my vallor; I have darrd As much as he that durst affront the gods, But greife hathe staynd me.

_Did_. What meane you, Sir? Why I am _Didier_.

_Gan_. That buryed _Richard_? Oh, _Didier_, I was a barbarous wretche in kyllinge hym. Digg up his bodye, brynge it hyther, goe: Hys wounds will fall a bleedinge & the syghte Will soften my conjealed bloode, for nowe Me thynks I am not passyonate. But stay, Let all sweete rest preserve hym: I will thynke Howe reelinge in the anguyshe of hys wounds I would not heare hym when a was about To teache repentance, and that onlye thought Shall melt me into cynders. I am like The needye spendthryfte nowe, that an inforcst To make my wants knowne where I must not hope To gett releife. Releife? tys a vague hope And I will banyshe the conceyte. Come hyther, Looke uppon thys & wonder yet a littill It was my handyworke, yet nothynge neare The synne of kyllinge _Richarde_.

_Oli_. Have you then slayne the noblest worthye _Richard_?

_Gan_. Yes, by the false illussyons of theise twoe.

_Oli_. A guarde within there!

[_Enter a guard & apprehends Ganelon & Didier_.

_Gan_. Fayth, it will not neede, I knowe my ende of journey. For hys deathe I murderd theise: thys temporyzinge knave Buryed him last nyght; all I can aleadge Agaynst hym is concealment of the murther.

_Did_. Tys come about: twas allways in my mynde Nothynge should hange me, beinge naught by kynde.

_Oli_. Bringe theym away. Treason so greate as thys Was never seene synce man had power to wishe.

[_Exe. with the dead Bodyes_.

[SCENE 4.]

_Enter Charlimayne, Turpin, Eudon & Attendants_.

_Char_. What pageants thys that on the fallowd lands Crosses me everye way? I cannot goe But styll he meets me full jumpe.

_Tur_. Beleve me, Sir. I have not seen an antycke more disguysed. A gallopps ore the newe plowde lands as fast As twere a comon hye way, yet no speeche Can make hym to forsake theym.

_Eud_. Nay, whats more, The beast he rydds on is not usuall, Tys neyther horsse nor asse, and yet a beast Nymble & fytt for burthen.

_Char_. _Eudon_, goe Bydd hym dismounte & as he loves hys life Presentlye come before us. I will knowe [_Ex. Eudon_. The ende of thys straunge purposse. Suer there must Some secrett hange uppon it! thyngs doone thus Are seldome jests, unlesse jests seryous.

_Enter Eudon & Busse, leading in twoe lymes Byrtha
& a Spaniell, hymselfe cladd all in nett_.

O tys _La Busse_; I've founde hys stratagem.-- Nowe, Sir, y'are wellcome; whence growes thys dysguyse?

_Bus_. Sir, from the fayre protectyon of your grace And satisfactyon of your vowe; which doone, Bouldlye I hope I may voutsafe to begge My fathers deare deliverance.

_Char_. Noble sonne, What wouldst thou doe hadst thou a noble father! But come, sir, synce you putt me to the test, Resolve the doute: your fathers pardoned When you shall meet me uppon no hye way.

_Bus_. Which even nowe I did: the fallowe lands, Newe plowed & tylld are free from passengers.

_Char_. Tys graunted; but your selfe, Sir, must not ryde Of horse nor mare nor asse, & yet the beast An usuall thynge for burthen.

_Bus_. Suche is myne, A Mule, that is the bastard breede betwyxte An asse & mare, & onlye fytt for labor.

_Char_. But, sir, you must be neyther cloathed nor naked.

_Bus_. Nor am I, myghtie Sir: thys pore thynne nett Nor leaves me nakt nor yet dothe cover me.

_Char_. You prettylie orereache me; but you must Bringe in your hand the faythfullst frend you challenge.

_Bus_. Thys is he, my faythfull trustye spanyell, The verye typpe & truthe of true affectyon.

_Char_. But with hym must be joynd your greatest enemye.

_Bus_. They are not farre assunder: a curst wife Is evermore mans worst aflyctyon, And shee that outgoes myne in bytternes May fryght the whole worlde.

_Char_. Come, y'are ingenyous, And I confes th'ast conquerd, thoughe I knowe Thy father houlds as much unworthynes As may excusse tyrranye in a prynce: Yet for thys goodnes & thys industrye, Th'example of the sweetest disposytion, For all th'offences yet reveald unto me I freelye pardon hym.

_Bus_. And you are good And like your selfe, a verye god[103] in pyttie.

_Ber_. And from thys mercye I will new create In me a spyrrytt full of humblenes.

_Enter La Fue in gallantrye_.

_Fue_. Roame there & uncover, gentyllmen. I that am myne owne gentyllman usher am the best gentyllman in _Fraunce_ at thys present. Give place & avoyde these.

_Bus_. What meanes the peasant? syrha, are you madd?

_Fue_. Yes, and I were halfe nakt as you are. Roame I say!--O my sweete harte, I will [_Offers to kisse Charli_.] kysse thy whyte lipps in the syght of thys whole assemblye.

_Char_. Avaunte, I say! what meanes thys lunatycke.

_Tur_. Pore sott howe hees deceyvd! th'inchauntments vanyshed.-- Syrha learne better manners.

_Fue_. How! syrha to my greatnes! I am not in case to carrye your tokens. Ould man, you had better manners when last I lefte you.--Come, sweete love, I will love thee without more intreatye. Let us withdrawe & in pryvate rumynat our selves together.

_Char_. Is there no whypps for knaves are impudent? Thys sawcynes will make your skynne [to] smarte.

_Fue_. Away, away! Y'are an ould man & should be wyse. I tell you I was not in love with you tyll you doated on me; to drawe me into a fooles paradysse[104] & there leave me is not an honest man's parte nor a good chrystyans.

_Char_. What kynde of madnes call you thys? for shame! Shall I be torturd with hym?

_Tur_. Tys but a rude grosse weaknes, which anon Ile shoe at full unto your majestie.

_Fue_. Come, sweete _Charles_, I knowe thou lovest me, & love will creepe where it cannot goe. Come, letts condole together.

_Char_. Yes, if I like your example. Goe presentlye And give him fortye lashes: make hym bleede Soundlye, away with hym!

_Fue_. Howe, howe, how! fortye lashes! so I shall bleede to deathe. Call you that soundlye? Foote! I am sicke with thought on't.

_Char_. Away with hym! And if a prate, see that you dooble them: Away!

_Fue_. Well I will never trust the wooeinge of a great man whylst I live agayne: & they be as false to weomen as to men they have sweete eeles to hould by.

_Char_. Yet has a leave to prate?

_Tur_. Away with hym, --But on your lives give hym no punyshment.

[_Ex. Fue. & guard_.

_Char_. I have not seene a madnes of thys nature: But let him smarte for't.--_Eudon_, give comand That _Ganelon_ attend me presentlye. But, stay-- What sollemp sound is thys? I am prevented.

[_Dead marche_.]--_Funeral sounde. Enter Orlando,
Reinaldo leading Ganelon, Oliver, Didier; two
herses, one with Eldegr. & Gab., the other Richard_.

The cause of thys?

_Orl_. O my most sacred lorde, I bring you here The worlds extreamest monster, suche a man Whose ills exceede the lawes inventyon. Fyrst looke on thys, the fayre & comelye braunche Of _Aimons_ noble famylie; then on theise, His fayrest syster & hys dearest mother (O heaven that I should name that dreadfull name In such a case as murder!) all by hym And hys right hand, with thys ill mans advyse, Murderd unjustlye.

_Rei_. To which I adde Treasons of daunger & of hye disgrace Bothe to your crowne & person; and thoughe they Myght glutt the lawe, yet my brothers blood And theise twoe inocentts, I hope, will pleade Dyvorce of all repryvall.

_Oli_. Lastlye I With theys stronge proofs, cannot be argued of, Confyrme all past denyall; hys owne hand Here of thys pap[er] maks a regyster [_Gives the letter_. Of myscheives above wonder. Who reads thys, Thoughe flynte, must melt in pyttie.

_Bus_. Dye all my hopes, & in thys masse of shame Be buryed both my memorye & name. [_Ex. La Busse_.

_Gan_. What a lardge passage or cyrcompherence Theise prynces make to come unto the way Which lyes before theire nosses! tys lost wytt To seeke an engyne for the desperatt, Why, deathes in all he looks on; but to hope Saftye were more then dyetye[105] can promysse. Let it suffyce all's true, & thus I rest: If I dye once, not ever, I am blest.

_Char_. I am amazd: what I have reade & heard Tournes me like _Gorgon_ into senclessnes. He speaks heare of a rynge, a wytchcraft rynge, By which I was inchaunted to hys syster. Where is that damned juell?

_Tur_. Here in my safe possessyon, thys is it, Which at her deathe, lodgd underneathe her tonge, I found by carefull searche. Good deare sir, keepe it And hencefourthe onlye love your royall selfe. The spell is past example, & hys synne Can onlye ballance downe the wyckednes.

_Gan_. Butt I confes it, & the sorcerrer That made it I did murder conynglye, And at her deathe had I recompast it, I had beene kynge of _Fraunce_. Thys noble knave Was pryvie to the passadge.

_Did_. Tys toe late Nowe to denye it: deathe never bryngs hys smarte But when a strycks gaynst lawe or gaynst desarte.

_Char_. Away with them, & see theym presentlye Broken uppon the wheele. [_Ex. Gan. Did. & guard_. Nephewe, for you I give you freelye here the realme of _Spayne_ And all domynions in it; for your guarde Ten thousand of our best _Frenche_ gentyllmen. And wishe your fortunes like your valure be The best of everye lived posterytie.

_Orl_. Sir[106], you doe bynde me to eternall servyce Bothe in your love & justyce, for we fynde Th'instructyons that on evyll men depends Is to compare theire projects with theire ends.

[_Exe_.

FINIS. [Greek: Telos]

Terminat hora diem, terminat Author opus.

Nella [Greek: ph d ph n r] la B.[107]

INTRODUCTION TO THE HISTORY OF _THE TRYALL OF CHEVALRY_.

This play was printed in 1605, and is stated on the title-page to have been "lately acted by the right Honorable the Earle of Darby his servants." It has not been reprinted, and copies of the old quarto are exceedingly rare. There is an air of old-fashionedness about the diction and the metre that would lead us to suppose the play was written several years before the date of publication. The wearisome practice, in which the characters so freely indulge, of speaking in the third person is very characteristic of the earlier dramatists, notably of Greene. Yet it is clear, from more than one passage, that the author was acquainted with Shakespeare's historical plays. Dick Bowyer's puns on the sentinels' names (ii. 1) were certainly suggested by Falstaff's pleasantries with the recruits in _Henry IV_., Part II. Winstanley absurdly ascribes the piece to William Wager, who flourished (?) when Shakespeare was a child. If I were obliged to make a guess at the authorship, I would name Chettle or Munday, or both. It is not altogether improbable that the _Tryall of Chevalry_ may be the play by Chettle and Wentworth Smith, entitled _Love Parts Friendship_, acted in 1602[108]. Bourbon and Rodorick are just such a pair of villains as young Playnsey and Sir Robert Westford in Chettle and Day's _Blind Beggar_. The low comedy in both pieces might well have come from the same hand, though Dick Bowyer is certainly more amusing than the roystering companions in the _Blind Beggar_.

I make no claim for high excellence on behalf of this unknown playwright. The writing is at times thin and feeble, and the versification is somewhat monotonous. But with all its faults, the language is dramatic. The writer was a contemporary of Shakespeare, and something of Shakespeare's spirit breathes through the pages of this forgotten play. Take such a speech as the following, from the second scene of the opening act:--

Must I be spokesman? _Pembrooke_ plead for love?
Whose tounge tuned to the Instruments of war
Never knew straine of fancy; on my breath
Affection never dwelt, but war and death!
But if thou lov'dst to have thy soldiers fight,
Or hearten the spent courages of men,
_Pembrooke_ could use a stile invincible.
Lov'dst thou a towne, Ide teach thee how to woo her
With words of thunder-bullets wrapt in fire,[109]
Till with thy cannon battry she relent
And humble her proud heart to stoop to thee.
Or if not this, then mount thee on a steed
Whose courage never awde an yron Bit,
And thou shalt heare me hollow to the beast
And with commanding accents master him.
This courtship Pembrooke knows, but idle love,
The sick-fac't object of an amorous brayne,
Did never clothe mine eye-balls, never taught
This toung, inurde to broyles and stratagems,
The passionate language of a troubled heart:
I am too blunt and rude for such nice service.
Yet since my friend injoynes me to this taske,
Take courage, Ile both speake, plead, woo for thee,
And when I want fit words to move her mind,
Ile draw my sword and sweare she must be kind.

One may smile at the notion of holloaing "to the beast," but the whole passage is vigorous, and some single lines (e.g. "The passionate language of a troubled heart") are excellent.

THE HISTORY of the tryall of CHEUALRY,

With the life and death of Caualiero _Dicke Bowyer_.

As it hath bin lately acted by the right _Honourable the Earle of Darby his_ servants.

LONDON Printed by Simon Stafford for Nathaniel Butter, and are to be sold at his shop in Paules Church-Yard, neere S. Austens Gate. 1605.

The Historie of the triall of Chevalry.

_Actus Primus_.

[SCENE 1.]

_Enter_ Lewes, _King of France_, Philip _his sonne_,
Katharina _his daughter_, Roderick _and_ Flaunders,
_with drum and colours, and soldiers at one dore:
at the other enter_ Navar, Ferdinand, Bellamira, _and,
the Earle of_ Pembroke, _and_ Burbon.

[_Lew_.] Duke _Roderick_ and my noble cozen _Flaunders_, Are your Battalions ready for the charge?

_Rod_. Ten thousand men of Orleance I commaund And those are bravely marshald on the playn, Ready to be commaunded by your Highnesse.

_Flaund_. As many of the warlike brood of _Mars_ Doe call me Generall: those, my gracious Lord, Together with my selfe I recommend To be commaunded by your Majesty.

_Lew_. Thanks, Earle of Flaunders, Duke of Orleance, thanks. What lets us that we charge not on the foe?

_Nav_. My Lord of Pembrooke, are your Englishmen Squadron'd with ours and ready for the charge?

_Pem_. The French and English make one warlike body Whereof your Highnesse is the moving head: Or peace or warre, as pleaseth you, direct.

_Nav_. Then war and give the signal through the host.

_Lew_. Navar, Navar, submission were more meete Then to adde bloud to wrong.

_Nav_. What wrong, King _Lewes_? The Kingdome of Navar we will acknowledge To hold of none but of the King of Kings.

_Lew_. Three hundred yeres prescriptions on our sides; So long thy Ancestors by fealty Have helde thy Kingdome of the Crowne of France.

_Pem_. Talke not of yeres, yeres limit not a Crowne; There's no prescription to inthrall a King. He finds it written in the Rowles of time Navar's a Kingdome solely absolute, And by collusion of the Kings of France, The people speaking all one mother toung, It hath bin wrested for a Royalty Untruly due unto the Crowne of France. That _Pembrook_ speaks the truth, behold my sword, Which shall approve my words substantiall.

_Rod_. _Pembrooke_, you are too plaine in your discourse.

_Bur_. I tell thee, _Rodoricke, Pembrooke_ soldier-like Hath truely opened what ten thousand lives Will hardly doe if warre be made the Judge.

_Rod_. If war be Judge? Why, shallow-witted _Burbon_, Who shall decide this difference but war? Hath not the Judge put on his Scarlet Robe? Is not the field prepar'd? our men in armour? The trumpets ready for the sound of death, And nothing hinders us but our owne words? Leave idle parley, my dread soveraigne Lord, And soone resolve the Duke in fire and smoke That he maintaines a title false and forg'd, And that _Navar_ is a usurping Lord.

_Na_. On that Ile hazzard all these valiant lives. Sound Drums and Trumpets! make King _Lewes_ know He makes his best friend prove his greatest foe.

_Lew_. Why pause our drums? our trumpets beat as loud! Till the bright ayre be made a purple cloud.

_Phil_. Pause, gracious father.

_Ferd_. Noble father, pause. Let _Ferdinand_ thy sonne so far prevayle That peace, not war, may end this difference.

_Bel_. For _Bellamiraes_ sake abstayne from war.

_Phil_. _Philip_ thy sonne humbly desires a peace: Let not my father sheathe his warlike sword Within the bowels of his Countrymen.

_Kath_. Thy daughter _Katharina_ prayes the like.

_Nav_. From whence proceeds this sudden sound of peace? Comes it from me? what? from my _Ferdinand_, From _Bellamira_ my sweet second selfe?

_Lew_. Or rather comes it, _Lewes_, from thy soule, Thy _Philip_ the true image of thy selfe, Thy _Katharina_ thy heart's chiefest joy?

_Rod_. Princes, you aske you know not what your selves.

_Pem_. _Rodorick_, they aske a sweet and pleasing boone.

_Rod_. Why, they aske peace and we are set for war.

_Fer_. Tis a bad peace exceeds not a just war.

_Phil_. We will not rise from this submissive ground Till we obtayne, if not a peace, a truce.

_Fer_. Nor shall our feet be guilty of new steps Till I obtayne a truce from murdering war.

_Lew_. Shew me some reason (sonne) for this demand.

_Nav_. Shew me some reason (children) for this prayer.

_Fer_. I love the daughter of thine enemy: Fayre _Katherina_ hath inthrald my heart.

_Phil_. I love the daughter of thine enemy: Fayre _Bellamira_ hath inthrald my heart.

_Pem_. Is love the cause? then wherefore wage we war? What matter ist who weares both Diadems, When the succession lives in eythers heyre? If _Ferdinand_ be crown'd king of Navar, Fayre _Katherina_ shalbe crownd his Queene: If _Philip_ weare the Diadem of France, Fayre _Bellamira_, made his lovely Queene, Swayes half the Scepter. See what heaven can doe,-- Provide for peace even in the jawes of war!

_Kath_. How sweetly doth the Earle of Pembrooke speake! Now, trust me, I am ravisht with his voyce.

_Lew_. What says _Navar_? What, is [i]t war or peace?

_Na_. A truce for three moneths, so it please your Highnes, During which time our children shall have leave With Drum and Trumpet to surveigh the Campe, To court our daughters and to feast themselves As fits the sonnes of honourable foes. And if it prove a match betweene them both, There end all difference: Ile bequeath my Crowne As a rich offering to their nuptiall Rites.

_Lew_. Here, strike the truce upon my kingly hand, Which is as surely ratified in this As by the testimonial of a world. So now for three moneths space all warres surcease: Our thoughts are wholy fixt on love and peace. [_Exe_.

_Manent_ Rodorick _and_ Burbon.

_Rod_. Zounds, here's a truce made up by miracle!

_Burb_. Ile crosse it by a wily stratageme.

_Rod_. What stratageme?

_Bur_. By love to _Bellamira_. O could I dive into the Prince's heart By any insinuation ne're so base, How easily might I effect my plot To make the kingdome of Navarre mine owne. 'Twere but a dram or so unto the sonne, And a small thing would send the old man hence. What, noble _Rodorick_? to gayne a Crowne A Duke would doe much.

_Rod_. More then poyson two. But you, my Lord, forget your selfe too farre. Know you to whom you have disclosde your heart?

_Bur_. Why, to the Duke of Orleance.

_Rod_. The deare friend Of _Lewes_ the French King.

_Burb_. King me no Kings. Although we seeme to be of severall sides, _Rodorick_, we love together like true friends. This Truce gives ayme to our intention: Assist me (worthy _Orleance_) to effect First my desired love and next the Crowne.

_Rod_. _Peter de Lions_ is your Lordships servant, A boone companion and a lusty knave. He is in love with _Bellamiraes_ mayd, And by that love he may bestead your Highnesse More then your best friends in your best designes. Call him forth.

_Burb_. What! _Peter_!

_Enter_ Peter.

_Pet_. Here, my Lord.

_Burb_. Why dost thou looke so wildly?

_Pet_. Not with drinke Nor yet with rage.

_Rod_. His lookes are wild with love.

_Pet_. With love, surreverence[110]? can there be a face In all the world patcht up with eyes and lips, A forhead and a payre of crimson cheeks, To make me doat on, to make me looke wild?

_Rod_. Come, come, tis knowne that you love _Thomasin_.

_Pet_. Zounds they that know that know my heart & all: I have not the power to deny it, tis most true.

_Burb_. And tis most true that I love _Bellamira_. Now, if thou art in favor of thy wench, Many a meeting thou mayst helpe me to And learne besides what sutors seeke her love And whom she most affects. These things once knowne Twere worth a Dukedome, _Peter_.

_Pet_. Sbloud, give me A Dukedome and Ile warrant you the knowledge Of these things ten times o're.

_Rod_. Theres Angels for thee, _Peter_, thinke on them And doe thy best to helpe thy master's love.-- Well howsoever I smooth it to the Duke, My thoughts are bent on his destruction.

_Pet_. You have my heart In your purse; Ile doe anything for you.

_Bur_. And thou shalt want no gold; and so farwel.

[_Exeunt_.

_Pet_. I cannot chuse to farewell, and have the good Angels to comfort me; yet I am melancholy. Heeres gold to make me merry: O but (hey ho) heres love to make me sad. To avoyd prolixity I am crost with a Sutor that wants a piece of his toung, and that makes him come lisping home. They call him _Cavaliero Bowyer_; he will have no nay but the wench. By these hilts, such another swash-buckler lives not in the nyne quarters of the world. Why, he came over with the Earle of Pembrooke, and he limps and he limps & he devoures more French ground at two paces then will serve _Thomasin_ at nineteene. If ever he speake French, to avoyd prolixity, he will murder the toung. Ile provide for him; theres but small choice. Either he shall renounce the wench or forsake his lame legs, his lisping toung and his life to: for by S. _Denis_ I had rather dye in a ditch then be bobd[111] of my fayre _Thomasin_.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE 2.]

_Enter at one dore_ Philip _and_ Roderick, _a drummer
before them with his Drum at his back: at the other
dore_ Ferdinand _and_ Pembrooke _with their Drummes_.

_Ferd_. Whither goes royall _Philip_ thus prepard?

_Phil_. On what adventure goes Prince _Ferdinand_?

_Ferd_. To conquer all the world, fayre _Katharine_, Whose beauty in mine eye surmounts it far. Vertue and love conducts me to your sister.

_Phil_. On the like voyage are my fortunes bound, I goe to winne thy sister.

_Ferd_. Some fayre Starre On our great hopes shine fayre and debonaire.

_Pem_. Amen, sayth _Pembroke_.

_Rod_. Amen, sayth _Rodoricke_,

_Ferd_. This way my Love dwels.

_Phil_. In this ayre breathes mine.

_Both_. Farewell.

_Phil_. Prince _Ferdinand_ if these cross loves Enjoy a wisht success, peace here shall dwell.

_Ferd_. And we be friendly Brothers.

_Phil_. True.

_Ferd_. Farewell.

[_Exeunt Philip and Rodoricke_.

_Pem_. Pity such true love, which like blessed seed Sowne in such fertile soyle his princely brest, By the rough stormy brow and winters hate Of adverse parents should be timelesse nipt And dye e're it attayne maturity. For I have heard the Princesse whom he serves Is hotely courted by the Duke of Burbon, Who to effect his choyce hath in these warres Furnisht your father with a gallant power; His love may haply then disable _Philip_.