Chapter 13

_Gan_. Sir, I am just of your opynion I; For what extreame beast but a foolishe curre Would envye that which he hym selfe dispyses? Be not offended, Sir, thoughe symple I Can live in peace at home with hungrye leeks And never curse my planettes. I can leape With more actyvitie then yesterday.--_Capers_. Does thys offend you, Sir?

_Orl_. Exceedinglye.

_Rei_. Were you thus nymble ever from a boy?

_Gan_. No, in good faythe it taks me of the sodayne.

_Oli_. Your harte is lighter then it needs, I doute.

_Gan_. Yes, and your heade is lighter then your heeles.

_Bus_. It is the honor of hys gravitie Not to be shaken with rydiculous winds Of envye or of scandall. Good Sir, thynke His resolutyons nowe his champyons.

_Gan_. Syrha, no more; you shall goe home with me And learne to laughe at fortune; I have there A worthye matche and vertuous wife for thee And she shall pyle up all your flatterye: The courte hath no use for it.--Sir, methought You talkt of lightnes, did you not?

_Orl_. Yes, that your heade is lighter then your heeles.

_Gan_. It is, I thanke my starres; howe can it chuse, Beinge disburdend of so manye feares, So much attendance and so manye synnes By losse of my late offyces? I am bounde (My contyence knowes it well) to blesse your lordshipp If you or others moved the emperour To my displaceinge. I am nowe unloaded Of all the wayghtie cares that did oppresse me, And shall I not discover what I am. A nymble and a newe borne quyet man. [_Capers_.] --Does thys offend you?

_Enter Turpin_.

_Tur_. Where's lorde _Richard_?

_Rich_. Here, reverend Sir.

_Tur_. Hys majestie comands you uppon payne Of life and your aleagance that from hence You never more conversse with _Ganelon_ Eyther by letter, speeche or complyment. No not so much as see hym; and withall You must imediatlye attend his hyghnes.

_Rich_. I am hys servant. [_Ex. Tur., Rich_.

_Gan_. Tyll nowe I neare felt thunder, I am strooke To deathe with mans soft languadge. Come away: Tyll nowe I neare saw trulye a sadd day.

[_Ex. Can., La Busse_.

_Orl_. Wherefore did the angrye emperour Degrade thys merrye lorde? To pleasure me, Did he not, cossen?

_Rei_. Yes, to satisfye The wronge he did in plottinge of your deathe.

_Orl_. He did so, righte, but tys as fruytlesse all As catchynge of the moone: tys past mans power To take away my cursse of destenye.

_Oli_. Tys that opynion multyplyes your cursse.

_Orl_. Had any man but such a slave as I Look't to have tryumphd in hys base dejection And he should have beene glutted with hys fortunes, Whylst I and all the projects I can make Cannot (with fortunes leave) gett a good dreame.

_Rei_. Doe not so blame your fortunes, worthye cossen: You have in many actyons prosperd well.

_Orl_. Good, doe not studye how to flatter me; I am in althyngs most unfortunate. Witnes my fyrst love to _Angellica_, ... ... ... my cursse ... ... ... My manye shypwracks, my halfe combattings, Charmes and inchauntments or whatever ells Can breake the harte of resolutyon.

_Rei_. What say you to your conquests?

_Orl_. Tut, in thosse Fortune did never medle: honor there Served in her person, not by substytute. Instead of which pore blessinge not a day Hathe hapned synce without some mysserye. Wheres now my hope of byrthrighte, where all _Fraunce_? Drownd in the cradle of a chamber groome. And now, just now, resolveinge to aflycte That myserable lorde, he doth dispyse Me & hys shame, because in me it lyes. By heaven I will release hym!

_Rei_. Nothinge so: Pray leave thys angrye moode and followe me; Ile add a torment to hys mysserye.

[_Exe_.

[SCENE 2.]

_Enter Eudon, Eldegrade, Bertha & Gabrielle_.

_Eud_. Ile sooner shrynke back when my lifes assaulted Then when my promyse shalbe claymd (good madam). I promysd to your lorde that _Bertha_ here, My daughter, should be marryed to hys sonne, And Ile perform't; for onlye to that ende I've brought her nowe.

_Eld_. And, Sir, tis noblye doone; I knowe the matche is more desyred by hym Then the kyngs favors, which at thys tyme he Is laboringe to recover, but's retourne I knowe wilbe most sodayne.

_Eud_. Weele attend it.

_Gab_. Hey hoe.

_Ber_. Why syghes thou, frende?

_Gab_. Not at your joys but myne afflyctyons. Your in a good way, _Bertha_, ryde spurrd on, May come unto your journey: I must tyre, Theres not a swytche or prycke to quycken me.

_Ber_. Yes, when younge _Rychard_ hunts your purlue ground. Come, I doe know you will not chaunge your ryder.

_Gab_. Not if a would fall to hys exercyse.

_Ber_. Th'art styll thy selfe (all madnes).--But no more; Here comes your brother.

_Enter Ganelon, La Busse_.

_Eud_. Healthe to my noble lorde!

_Gan_. You wishe me my worst enemye, yet, Sir, Tys wellcome since you wishe it. O I am At thys tyme nothynge but extreame disgrace.

_Eud_. Shake you for that? Why, noble lorde, you knowe Disgrace is ever like the greate assay Which turnes imperfytt mettalls into fume And shewes pure gould to have an absolute valewe Because it styll remayns unchaungable Disgrace can never scarre a good mans sence, Tys an undaunted harte shoes Innocence: Shame in a guyltie man (like wounds & scratches In a corrupted fleshe) may ranckell deepe, Good mens dishonors heale before they weepe.

_Gan_. Pray thee, noble _Eudon_, save thy selfe, And come not neare me; I am pestilent.

_Eud_. I doe not feare infection.

_Gan_. I knowe tharte noble & a man of warre, One that hathe feard no mortall wound so muche As to be recond fearfull; but the cause, The cause of my dull ruyne must affryghte you You have not flynte enoughe to arme your soule Agaynst compassyon; & that kylls a souldior. Let me have roame to breathe at lardge my woes And talke alone, least the proceedinge ayre That easeth me beget in you a payne. Leave me, pray leave me: my rude vyolence Will halfe distract your spyrrytts, my sadd speeche Like such a noyse as drownds all other noyse Will so afflyct your thoughts & cares on me That all your care besyde must be neglected. My tyme of patyence is expyrd; pray leave me.

_Eld_. Ithe name of wonder, sir, what dothe afflyct you.

_Eud_. You boare your banyshment most brave tyll nowe.

_Gan_. I did, & could as quyetlye endure To be exposd uppon the publique scaffold To all myne enemyes contempt, but nowe I'me more then banysht, all my honors lost, My wealthe, my places everye one the kyngs; I hardlye am a pryvate gentyllman. And more then thys, my onlye dearest frend, My _Richard_, I must never see agayne.

_Gab_.--Excellent newse! hould, there Ile honor thee.

_Eud_. Why, all thys is a tryfell; suche a blast As should not move a weake reede. Come, I love Your selfe and not your fortunes: pray forgett em. See, I have brought my daughter, and desyer The matche betwixt us may be consumate.

_Gan_. O you are noble that can pyttie scorne! And werte not for my frends losse all the rest I should loosse like my shadowe.

_Eld_. I, and hym, When I have toulde you myne intelligence. Come, hees not halfe so good as you imagine.

_Gan_. Goe, y'are a woman, and that styll implyes Can be malytious.--But are you then resolvd To match with myne ill fortunes?

_Eud_. Sir, I am.

_Gan_. What says fayre _Bertha_?

_Ber_. That my free will dothe bynde My love to his comandment.

_Gan_. Then take her, boy; we wilbe hencefourthe frends, And howsoever crosses come & goe Ile leave thee cloathes inowe for winter tyme.

_Bus_. Sir, I am bound to you & to my mistress, And will so arme my servyce with delighte That, madam, you shall counte thys maryadge yoake The onlye lyst of pleasure.

_Ber_. Thats my hope: Bate me the pleasure, and, beleive it, Sir, I shall crye out oth bargayne.

_Bus_. Feare me not.

_Gan_. Come, we will have thys maryage sollempnyzd, In which I meane to feighte with agonye And shoe the worlde I can cast honors of More easlye then my garments. Wisdome & thought Most precious ever when tys dearest bought.

[_Exe. all but Gab_.

_Gab_. Suer thys should be the day of _Valentyne_ When everye byrd dothe coople, onlye I Pore forlorne turtle, haveinge lost my mate, Must dye on a bare braunche. Wytt defend me! Youthe & my pleasures will not suffer it. I've here contryved a letter to my frende In myne ill brothers name. It may worke Somethynge to gayne my wishes; at the worst It cannot make me more then I am accurst. And heres my messenger.--

_Enter La Fue_.

Howe nowe Mounseir _Fue_? Whyther gost thou in suche a sweatinge passyon?

_Fue_. O, Madam, sweatynge is goode for the itche, and the rascall _Didier_ haveing playd the roague with my lord ist possyble but I should itche to be about hys eares when I see the knaves countenance? Therefore to avoyde troble I affect sweatinge.

_Gab_. Why, thou dost not see hym nor art thou licklye.

_Fue_. O by all meanes I cannot mysse the devyll. Why, I am goeing to the courte, Madam, & the knave wilbe in everye corner, _Didier_ I meane, by all meanes; so that if I doe not sweate I shall scratche the skynne from myne elbowes.

_Gab_. Then to further your sweatinge take paynes with thys letter; tell noble _Richard_, the sonne of _Aimon_, your master sente it, but doe not tell your master I imployd you. Take this rewarde and deale wiselye.

_Fue_. As wisely as my blewe coate will suffer me.

[_Exe_.

_Act 4_.

[SCENE I.]

_Enter Richard readinge a letter_.

_Rich. [Read] Myne enemyes have labord much, but my worst afflyctyon is thy lamented absence which may endanger us alyke. There is no means to prevent all evyls but the injoyinge of my sister Gabriella: therefore force in thy selfe an affectyon. She may otherwise growe discontent and trooble us with her mallyce. Therefore preserve thy selfe and me together, who am thy best on earthe: Ganelon_.

Thys letter sente me by my dearest frende Like spells and witchcraft dothe amaze my brayne. He urdges me to love where a dothe knowe I can by no meanes fancye; yet tys so, Our safties doe compell it, & to that I must of force bowe, teachinge my harde harte To seme most softe when tys most hard[e]ned.

_Enter Turpin_.

_Tur_. Where is pryncelye _Richard_?

_Ric_. Here, reverend lorde.

_Tur_. The kynge comands your presence, O deare Sir, I am orejoyd in your most brave advauncments. Why, you are now the fayrest stare[94] in _Fraunce_.

_Rich_. I doe not understand your reverence.

_Tur_. The emperour will make my meanyng playne. ... ... ... day Cunstable of _Fraunce_, Countye _Poyteirs_, marquysse of _Sallun_, And grand le seignior of the ordnance.

_Ric_. Theise are the dignities of noble _Ganelon_!

_Tur_. But these shall all be _Richards_.

_Ric_. Heaven forbydd! I will not weare the garments of my frende.

_Tur_. O doe not say so; they are forfayted roabs And never did become hys policie.

_Ric_. Good Sir, be charytable.

_Tur_. Indeede I am, But thys dothe least concerne me. Sir, I knowe The emperoure expects you.

_Enter La Fue_.

_Ric_. I will attend hym.--O y'are happylie mett. My urgent busynes maks my languadge shorte: Comend me to thy master, give hym thys, [_Gives letters and money_. Thys to the fayrest _Gabrielle_; thys Your selfe may drynke at your best leasure. [_Ex. Richard_.

_Fue_. Why, so thys goulde has made my choller as colde as snowe watter. I had thought to have whysteld hym a braule[95] for makinge me daunce attendance. Waytinge on courtyers is like knocking at greate mens gatts in dynner tyme: well may a man make a noyse but hunger & hard fare keepes the porter deafe styll. Tys scurvie passinge scurvye in good sadnes.

_Tur_. Now, Mounseir _La Fue_, you are of the retyred familye.

_Fue_. Tyerd famylie? No, we are not tyerd, yet we may be wearye, and yet he that spurrs me for a tyerd jade I may chaunce kycke hym in the dark.

_Tur_. Come, your anger mistaks: I said retyred.

_Fue_. I hate words I understand not: be that eyther tyers or retyers me may chaunce cursse his journey.

_Tur_. Styll so angrye? di[d]st never take physsycke?

_Fue_. P[er]a[dve]nter I have, p[er]a[dve]nter I have not.

_Tur_. By all meanes doe; choller will kyll thee ells. But to my purposse: heares gould, comend me to thy master and give him thys token from me. [_Gives the ringe_. You see howe thynges runne; hys frend has all hys honors.

_Fue_. And you had talkd thus before y'ad never tyerd me.

_Tur_. Stay, goe not yet, here comes the emperoure.

_Fue_. Mas, Ile have a syghte on hym.

_Enter Charlimayne, Richard, Didier_.

_Char_. Doe not perswade me; cossen, you shall weare The honors I have given; what was _Ganelons_ Onlye belongs to _Rychard_, he shall weare theym.

_Rich_. But without ease or comforte.--Good my lorde, You have a power in hys hyghnes love Beyond power to interprett: pray you begge Hys grace will ease thys burthen.

_Char_. Nor he nor any creature on the earthe Hath power in me beyond the rule of wisdome.

_Tur_. Not nowe, I knowe; that charme is altered. --Sweete lorde, I darre not lymytt kings affectyons. You have no honors but you merrytt theym.

_Char_. Ha! Wonder, howe dost thou houlde me! noble sence, Doe not forsake my reason. Good sweete lords, What excellent thynge is that, that, that, that thynge That is beyond discryption? knowe you hym?

_Fue_.--Hath spyed me and comends me: I may mounte.

_Tur_. Tys a dyspysed groome, the drudge of _Ganelon_.

_Char_. Tys the best forme of man that ere I sawe. Let me admyre hym.

_Tur_.--The ringe dothe hould hys vertue everye where, In weomen, men & monsters.

_Rich_.--Whence growes thys? Madnes to it is wisdome.

_Char_. Why, tys a bodye made by symetree And knytt together with more arte & care Then mathematycks cyrckles. _Durers_ rules Are perfytted in hym. Why, theirs a face Figurd with all proportyons! browe & eie, Rounde cheeke & lypp, a nose emperyall, And everye feature ells of excellence!

_Fue_. Alas I am but a grosse servyngman, yet vertue will sparkell.

_Char_. Why, theres a hande that aunswers to hys foote!

_Fue_. I & a true one toe, or bourne it ells.

_Char_. A legge and necke of one cyrcompherence, A waste that is no hygher then hys thye, And all parts ells of stronge proportyon. I am inchaunted with thys vyssyon.

_Did_.--In hells name what behould's hys majestie To doate uppon thys rascall!

_Fue_. It was a scurvye thynge in nature that she did not tourne mans eies inwarde. Why, had I seene as much as the emperoure I myghte have been a monarke by thys time. I will growe proude.

_Char_. O thou the onlye sweetnes of my soule, Give me but leave to touche thee, let my hand (Chast loves most bashful messenger) presume [To stro]ake theise flowers that in thy lovelie [chee]kes Flouryshe like somer garlands. In soothe my soule Loves thee beyond relatyon; for thee I doate And dye in thyne affectyon. Come, Ile make Thee greater then all _Fraunce_, above the peres, The proudest he that breathes shall thynke hym blest To do thee servyce, and esteeme it heaven To be thyne ape in imytatyon.

_Fue_. Nowe must I be coy by all meanes.--Trulye for myne owne parte I must love by dyscretyon, and discretyon tells me I ought not to love an oulde man, for ould men must needs be ingratfull.

_Char_. Why, deare sweete?

_Fue_. Because they can never live to rewarde benefytts.

_Tur_.--Bytter knave.

_Char_. O doe not feare; my bountye shall exceede The power of thyne askynge; thou shalt treade Uppon the heads of prynces. Bowe, you lords, And fall before thys saynte I reverence.

_Tur. Rich. Did_. Honors to hym the emperor doth honor!

_Fue_. Aryse, my good subjects; onlye for that roauge there the first acte of my chronickle shalbe hys hanginge.

_Did_. O be not angrye with your humble servante: I ever did adore you,

_Fue_. Yes like the meales that thou hast devourd halfe chewd for greedynes. But revendge comes nowe gallopinge.

_Char_. Who hathe displeasd my dearest? name hys name, The verye breathe shall blast hym; onlye, sweete, Love me & have thy wishes.

_Fue_. Well, I am contented to love you; and why? For nothing but because you are an oulde man.

_Char_. Why, tys the onlye tye of faythfulines: Age is the onlye object of the harte, And by's experyence onlye hathe aspyrd Toth heyght of all perfectyon.

_Fue_. True, for I'll stande too't an oulde man is able to see more, doe more, & comand more then any young man in Chrystendome.

_Char_. Prove it, my sweete; thou arte myne advocate.

_Fue_. Why, a sees more, through spectackles which make everye thynge apeare bygger than it is; does more, for a never lights from hys horse but hees readye to pull the sadle after hym; and for comandment he may call twentye tymes to hys servant ere he have hys will once performed.

_Rich_.--Sfoote, the knave dothe abuse hys hyghnes groslye.

_Tur_.--Tut, not at all when't cannot be dyserned.

_Char_. Why, I doe nowe doate on thyne excellence. Thys witts unparaleld.

_Did_.--True, except a man searche the Idyotts hospytall.

_Char_. Thou never shalt goe from me.

_Fue_. O yes, by all meanes. Shall my master say I ranne away like a rascall? No, you shall give me leave to take my leave. That ceremonye performd, I'm yours tyll doomes day.

_Char_. I cannot live without thee.

_Fue_. Ile not stay a day at furthest.

_Char_. I darre denye thee nothynge. Kysse & goe: Thynke how I languyshe for thee.

_Fue_. And I will condole in recyprocall kyndnes.

_Char_. Bishopp, attend my dearest.

_Tur_. Greate Sir, I was toe impudent even nowe To trooble you with my token; good Sir, please To give it me agayne: a meaner man Shall serve my humble messadge.

_Fue_. Bishopp, I doe voutsafe it; theres thy ringe. [_Gives him the ringe_.

_Tur_.--And you agayne a basse most scurvye thynge.

[_Exe. Turp., Fue_.

_Enter La Busse_.

_Char_. Howe nowe, _La Busse_? What newse from _Ganelon_?

_Bus_. Suche as can come from sorrowe: he is all Wretchednes and mysfortune, and in me Speaks to your sacred goodnes to be pleasd Voutsafe to call your fayre dove to your fyst (Mercye I meane) that may abate the stroake Of your sharpe eagle justyce, and you will Be wrytt the best of prynces.

_Char_. Come, no more: Your fathers sentence is irrevocable.

_Bus_. Yet, gratyous Sir, sende hym hys honors backe And for those fewe pore howers he hathe to breathe Let hym injoy those deare companyons.

_Char_. You are the good sonne of an evyll man And I comend your vertue, but thys suyte Is past all restytution: to thys prynce I've given all your father governed.

_Rich_. Which, royall sir?

_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.