Chapter 11

_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_.

_Fue_. Hees never from hym; nay I must begone; Past servyce is forgott. Doe you heare, my lorde? Beggars must be no chusers. I am one, The proverb proves it, an oulde serving man: At your choyse therefore be it, whether I Or that knave shall stay with you, for both must not; Your house (though lardge) cannot contayne us bothe.

_Gan_. Why, whatts the matter, _Fue_?

_Fue_. Matter of wronge. Full twoe and twentye severall liverye coatts, Made & composed all for severall yeares, Have I runne throughe in your most faythfull service. Oth scullerye I was three yeares before: So, blacke and blewe[86], I make account I've served Your Lordshypp five and twentye.

_Gan_. What meanes thys?

_Fue_. My servyce notwithstandinge, thys proude Jacke Abuses me in words I understand not; And therefore in playne tearmes if you keepe hym I am no longer for you.

_Gan_. Patyence, man: If thys be all Ile see it remedyed. He shalbe sorrye for the wronge thats past And promyse thee to second it with other.

_Fue_. Shall he? why, let him then, and I wilbe content to dye in peace.

_Did_. I bothe repent and promyse no amends.

_Fue_. Well, that shall pacyfie, we will be frends And live in peace together.

_Did_. On condytion That hence you take no lycence to deprave My good indevours.

_Fue_. In my contyence He wrongs me now agayne.

_Did_. Nor on this growe Sawcie and insolent.

_Fue_. Hay da! can oughte Proceeding from my gravitie to thee Be esteemd sawcynes? you heare, my lorde; Can fleshe and bloode induer thys? I doe knowe My servyce is more pretyous then to be Thus touzd and sullyed by hys envyous breathe; And though in pollycie I will not leave Your lordshypps servyce, yet if polycie Or brayne of man may studdye a revendge, Thys wytt of myne thats seldome showne in vayne Shall fashyon out a rare one. [_Exit La Fue_.

_Gan_. Syllye foole! Come, _Didier_; mynde not hys peeyvishe hate Ile make thee yet obscurd an envyed state.

[_Exeunt_.

_Actus 2_.

[SCENE I.]

_Enter Orlando, Reinaldo, Oliver, Souldiers, Attendants_.

_Orl_. O that my cursse had power to wounde the starres That with a more then envyous aspect Thus racke me & my fortunes! marryed? I coulde allmost brable with destenye For giveinge thys curst maryadge holye forme. And suer it errd in't: tys no gordyon knott That tyes suche a disparytie together. But what will not soothd prynces? theire hye blood A flatterye drawes toth lees, and more corrupte Then a disease thats kyllinge. Nowe must I, Like to an Argosie sent rychlye fourthe, Furnisht with all that mighte oppose the winds And byde the furye of the sea-gods rage, Trusted with halfe the wealthe a kyngdome yeilds, Havinge, insteade of addinge to her store, Undoone her selfe and made a thousand pore; Meanlye retourninge without mast or helme, Cable or anchor, quyte unrygd, unmand, Shott throughe and throughe with artefyciall thunder And naturall terror of tempestuous stormes, Must (that had beene the wonder of the worlde And loved burthen of the wanton seas) Be nowe a subject fytt for all mens pytties And like to such, not cared for a jott, ... ... ... ... ... must lye by & rott: And so must I.

_Rei_. His dottage maks hym thynke Hym selfe so happye in thys cursed matche That when the newse of your successe aryved (Thoughe cladd in laurell and fayrest victorie) He had no eare for't, all his powers beinge fylled With a suppossed joy conceyvd in her.

_Oli_. He has not dealt like _Charlimayne_ t'expose You to the horror of a cyvill warre, And, whylst your loyaltye made glorious way To hys wisht ends of conquest, thus to crosse Your fayre successyon.

_Orl_. Twas a speedinge plott To sende me into _Spayne_, whylst _Ganelon_ Tooke the ryght course; yet, if I had beene here, The envyous destenye that dothe attende On all my undertakings, would have made My best meanes uslesse to have hynderd it. For not the cooninge of slye _Ganelon, Charlimayne's_ dottage, nor her wytchinge eie (To whom I nowe must be obedyent) Can challendge any share in my disgrace; But myne owne fortune that did never smyle But when it gave me a full cause to cursse. And were the way to my successyon free As when I lefte the courte, yet gaynst all sence And possybyllitie somethynge suer woulde sprynge From my meare fate to make another kynge: So, torrent-like, my fortune ruynes all My rights of byrthe and nature.

_Rei_. You have doone ill To soothe hys adge unto thys vyolence.

_Oli_. With penytence tys confest, consyderinge Preventyon hathe quyte fledd us, & no way's Lefte eyther for revendge or remedye.

_Orl_. I am the verye foote-ball of the starres, Th'anottomye [sic] of fortune whom she dyssects With all the poysons and sharpe corrosyves Stylld in the lymbecke of damde pollycie. My starres, my starres! O that my breath could plucke theym from their spheares So with theire ruyns to conclude my feares.

_Enter La Busse_.

_Rei_. Smoother your passions, Sir: here comes his sonne-- A propertie oth court, that least his owne Ill manners should be noted thynks it fytt In pollycie to scoffe at other mens. He will taxe all degrees and think that that Keepes hym secure from all taxation.

_Orl_. Y'are deceyved; it is a noble gentylman And hated of his father for hys vertues.

_Bus_. Healthe and all blessings[87] wherewith heaven and earthe May comforte man, wayte on your excellence!

_Orl_. Although I know no mans good wyshe or prayrs Can ere be heard to my desyred good, I am not so voyde of humanitie But I will thanke your love.

_Rei_. Pray, sir, what newse Hath the court lately been deliverd of?

_Bus_. Such as the gallimaufry that is found In her large wombe may promise: he that has The fayrest vertues weares the foulest shyrte And knows no shyfte for't: none but journeymen preists Invay agaynst plurallytie of liveings And they grow hoarse ithe cause, yet are without The remedye of sugar candye for't. Offices are like huntinge breakfasts gott Hurlye burlye, snatcht with like greedynes, I & allmost disjested too as soone.

_Oli_. I, but in sober sadness whatts done there?

_Bus_. Faythe, very littill, Sir, in sober sadnes, For there disorder hurryes perfect thyngs To mere confussyon: nothing there hath forme But that which spoyles all forme, & to be shorte Vice only thrives and merryt starves in courte.

_Rei_. What of the maryadge of your noble aunte Our fayre eied royall empresse?

_Bus_. Trothe, I wonderd, Sir, You spoke of that no sooner, yet I hope None here are jealyous that I brought one sparke To kyndell that ill flame.

_Orl_. No, of my trothe, I know thee much too honest; but how fares The Empresse now, my dear exequetresse?

_Bus_. Sir, as a woman in her case may doe; Shee's broughte [to] bedd.

_Rei_. What, has she a chylde, then?

_Bus_. I, my Lord.

_Orl_. A Sonne!

_Bus_. Mys-fortune hath inspyrd you, Sir; tys true.

_Orl_. Nay when my fortune faylls me at a pynche I will thynke blasphemy a deede of merrytt. O harte, will nothing breake the?

_Rei_. Tis most straunge.

_Orl_. Straunge? Why, if she had been spayd And all mankynd made Euenucks, yet in spyghte My ill fate would have gotten her with chylde-- Of a son, too. Hencefourthe let no man That hathe a projecte he dothe wishe to thryve Ere let me knowe it. My mere knowledge in't Would tourne the hope't successe to an event That would fryghte nature & make patyence braule With the most pleasinge objecte.

_Bus_. Sir, be at peace; Much may be found by observatyon.

_Orl_. Th'arte bothe unfriendlie & uncharytable. Thys observation thou advysest to Would ryvett so my thoughts uppon my fate That I should be distrackt. I can observe Naughte but varyetye of mysseries Crossynge my byrthe, my blood and best endevours. I neare did good for any but great _Charles_, And the meare doing that hath still brought forth To me some plague too heavye to be borne, But that I am reservd onlye to teach The studyed envye of mallignant starrs. If fortune be blynde, as the poetts houlde, It is with studyinge myne afflictions; But, for her standing on a roullinge stone, Theire learninge faylls them, for she fixed stands And onlye against me.

_Rei_. Move hym no further; But if your observatyon can fynde out A coneinge in the carryadge of theise ills That may be questioned, Ile thanke your love, And be your servant: pray be inquisitive.

_Orl_. Inquiseytive? for what? my miseryes Requyer no searche, they playnlye shewe themselves, And in theire greatnes crowne what made them greate. The power of Fortune, which by theym beinge crownd Doth tyrannize uppon me.

_Enter Didier_.

_Did_. Healthe attend Thys honord presence! may your wellcome home Retayne proportion with those worthye deeds Whereby y'ave yearn'd all wellcome.

_Orl_. What is he?

_Did_. Howe ere my dutye and best wishes shall Ever attend you, and those wishes be Putt into acte to doe you anye servyce.

_Bus_. Thart a grosse flatterer, and knowe there is More sympathye betwixte mere contraryes Then twixte thy words and wishes.

_Did_. Then your knowledge Has no true ryghte doone to it, beinge so greate To be so littill famed. I never hearde That you ere did or durst knowe any thynge But dynner tyme & coronatyon day, The tylters collours & theire pages suytts, But to theire Empresas[88] you styll gave up An Ignoramus.

_Bus_. Th'art a parasytte; Thou & thy fortunes wayte uppon my father And like an evyll aungell make hym doe Those fearful thyngs I tremble to delyver. Therefore the love which thou protestest here Can be at best but fayn'd & beares more shewe Of treacherye then zeale.

_Did_. How say you by that?

_Orl_. _Ganelon's_ servant! Will it not suffyce The mallyce of my starres to presse me downe With a most pondrous wayghte of injuryes But they must keepe me wakinge with the syghte O' th'authors on't, to myxe my sufferings With heate and anger? Syrha, howe dare you Upbrayd me with your presence? or doe you thynke My wrongs and fortune have made me so tame That I am a fytt subject for your spleene, Your trencher envye & reverssyon rage? Or arte so greate an Infydell to doute My mischeifes snayle-pacst that thou spurst on newe In full carryere uppon me?

_Did_. I disclayme _Ganelons_ servyce other then to serve Your worthye ends, which is the onlye end Whertoe I ere seemd hys.

_Bus_. Monstrous deceytfull vyllayne!

_Orl_. Impossyble! I cannot be so happye, & if thou Beare but the least affectyon to my cause, Thy fortunes like thy trenchers wilbe chaungd To a sordyd foulenes that will loathe thy nature.

_Did_. For that no matter, I darre fortunes worst In ryghte of vertue; & if you'le be pleased Thys screane may be removed that keepes away All comfortable heate from everye man Which he stands neare, Ile tell you thyngs that shall Confyrme you I am yours.

_Orl_. He shall not goe, Nor can I hope successe in any thynge (More then my sworde), & muche lesse be confyrmed.

_Oli_. Pray, sir, withdrawe.

_Rei_. Althoughe I thynke thys fellowe meanes no good We may dyscover & prevent hys ill: Pray leave us, sir.

_Bus_. I will; but yet beware That fellowe. [_Exit La Busse_.

_Did_. I fyrst desyre To be beleived my love & utmost servyce Are vowed unto your greatnes, to which beleife The hazard of my life throughe all the daungers That ever fryghted weake mortallytie, Shalbe an instygation. Fyrst, Sir, knowe The empresse is departed.

_Orl_. Whyther! to hunt worsse fortunes then I suffer?

_Did_. Sir, she is deade, a fever shooke her bloode After her chyld bedd sycknes, & of it She dyed last mornynge.

_Rei_. Wonderful!! what newse of her younge sonne?

_Did_. It lyves & is a pryncelye littill one, _Lewis_ the _gentyll_ calld, a hopefull infante.

_Oli_. But smale hope of the emperours righte to it.

_Orl_. Howe taks hys majestye the empresse deathe?

_Did_. Straunglye, beyond all presydents of greife. Being dead it seemes he loves her ten tymes more Then ere he loved her liveinge (yet that love Outwentt all dottage in th'extreamytie): He will not give her buryall, but in's armes Carryes her up & downe, courts, kysses, toys, Mournes when she maks no answere; often faynes To understande her sylence; sweares that deathe Cannot, nay darre not, hurte suche excellence.

_Orl_. Why, thys is absolute madnes! Where's byshopp _Turpin_? His reverence shoulde persuade hym.

_Did_. So he hathe, But tys in vayne: he heares naught but his passyon.

_Orl_. Why, styll thou heapest uppon me newe misfortunes.

_Did_. But will delyver comforte. For some prooffe Of myne integrytie, knowe I was hyerd By _Ganelon_ to poyson you.

_Rei_. Whatts thys?

_Did_. To which performance I so soothd hys hopes That he beleives tys doone.

_Orl_. And so it had, But that my Fortune knewe my deathe woulde be Toe greate a blessinge for me & remove The object of her envye past her spleene. What wretchednes is thys! haveinge indeede All the worlds mysseryes that have a name, A new one out of pyttie must be founde To adde to infynitts. My heavy cursse, But that't would be a blessynge, shoulde rewarde thee; And for thy disobedyence to thy lorde Ile torture thee, for I will wish thee well.

_Did_. Did ever mans preservatyon plauge [sic] hym thus? Wonder confounds me.

_Rei_. My most worthye cossen, Will you not take advantage of thys plott?

_Orl_. No; what advauntage? the emperour's eares are glewed Gaynst althyngs but hys passyons.

_Did_. Great Sir, no; The vyolence of hys passyon notwithstandinge, Havinge hys deathe-slayne mistres in hys armes, He heares all causes criminall as if She did but slumber by hym.

_Oli_. Tys an offerd meanes To bringe your foe in hatred with the emperour Revyve your hopes.

_Orl_. As cordyalls doe call backe A dyinge man from hys aproachynge peace To make h[im suffer] still the mysseryes Of hys allmost past sycknes. I reffuse it, And by my suffrynge nowe will shewe my selfe Too noble to complayne. I neare coulde fynde Pleasure or ease in others punishment, Or if I were so base to take delighte In the afflyctions of another man My fate would guard me from't, for tys decreed That onlye I of all mankynde shall neare Be master of a hope shall have successe: So all the opposytion I can make Would onlye make my greives rydiculous And dyvorce pyttye from theym. Neare will I. [_Ex. Orlando_.

_Did_. Heres a straunge humor!

_Oli_. I, but let it not Deterre you from hys accusatyon.

_Did_. Ile justefye what I have sayd.

_Rei_. Doe so, And bothe myne entertaynment and rewarde Shall pay thy love and faythe.

[_Ex. all but Didier_.

_Did_. I doe not like Thys entertaynment at the second hande: It looks like barbers physicke, muddylie. Is thys a welcome worthye of the love I have exprest? Had I tooke up hys hauke Or matcht a coatch-horse for hym suche a servyce Had deserved more respect then he gives me. I like a wise man have lefte certayne meanes, For hop't preferments: 'twas dyscreetlye doone And ledd by vertue too. Thys vertue is The scurvyest, harlottryest, undoeinge thynge That ever mixte with rysinge courtyers thoughts. But t'has a cursse. It is impossyble Ere to gett into _Ganelon_ agayne, Havinge not onlye not performd hys will But tould hys purpose. And howe slyghte so ere The earle of _Angeres_ houlds thys accusatyon, T'will be examynd: therefore I must throughe-- But howe? thoughe it be true I cannot prove it By other testymonie then myne owne; And that hys owne denyall will bereave me Of the beleife due to it. Yet will I stand too't styll: To deter vyce heaven gives a power to will.

_Enter Ganelon_.

_Gan_. Y'are well mett.

_Did_. I thanke you.

_Gan_. Th'art a vyllayne.

_Did_. It may be so; your lordshypp can defyne me If you would shewe your readinge or your practyse.

_Gan_. _Orlando_ is retournd.

_Did_. Tys well.

_Gan_. It is; But it had beene better for your perjurd roaugshipp Your harte had gordgd a hauke.

_Did_. Wa, ha ho, man! Your buzarde is a kynde of byrde of prey, Your lordship knowes too, that will feede on all Unable to outflye or to resist, But suche pursued her basenes and her sloathe At once apeare. You understand me, sir?

_Gan_. Nowe a leane castrell[89] ceyze thee? Arte thou flesht? Must naught encounter you but byrds of rapyne?

_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.

_Gan_. Fye, thys doth stayne your noble modestye.

_Gab_. To tell before you myne affectyon In publique I confes it would make me A subject for taxation.

_Gan_. Anywhere. Come, a must not love you.

_Gab_. Heavens forbydd! And I must tell you, brother, that I darre (And with no other then a syster's spleene) Justifye myne affectyon.

_Gan_. So, And what wants thys of impudence?

_Gab_. As much As you of charytie if your tonge bee A faithfull servant to your mynde.

_Gan_. Tys well: You would be whored (mayd), would you not?

_Ric_. Pray, Forbeare.

_Gab_. Your reprehensyon is unmannerlye, While Ile enduer no longer. Fayre Sir, knowe I will not have my true love circomscrybd Within the lymits of your pollycie, Come, y'are wicked.

_Gan_. Repentance would doe well.

_Gab_. Tys a fytt matche for threescore and ten yeares And at that sober age I meane to wedd it. Yet knowe that my desyers are not so wild But they stay here. Nor will I ever stray Beyond this most loved object.

_Ric_. Say not so: It never can retourne your recompence. Vertue, my soules dower, which is now contrackt And richlie to be marryed unto heaven Shall ever keepe me from affectyon: Beleve it, madam, I will never love.

_Gab_. Then have false hopes raysd me to th'topp of all Onlye to forme my ruyne in my fall.

_Gan_. Nay, no more fallinge. Come, my noble frende; And, ladye, cherishe not these whorishe longings.

[_Exe. Gan. Rich_.

_Gab_. Not cherrishe them? yes, blowe them into flames Create as the full desyers that warme my bloode. What, am I younge, fruytfull, and somewhat fayre, And shall my pleasures beare the servyle yoake Of hys strycte rules and so chayne up my blood In manackles of ice? Fyrst Ile dare All pangs make men thynke of mortallytie, But I will love hym; yes, I will love hym styll And so be servd both in my lust and will.

_Enter Charlimayne with the queene in his armes, Turpin, La Busse_.