(SCENE I.)

Enter Eldegrad and Gabriella.

[Eld.] … … … it is not possyble … … … … … The smoothe face of the wanton lovelye Richard Should promise more true fortytude in love Then tourne a recreant to perswatyons.

Gab. Why, mother, you have seene the course of thyngs, The smale assurance and the certayne deathe, The meare deceytfull scope and shadowed ruyns That are most conynglie knytt up in pleasures; And are you styll to learne or will you trust A lovelye face with all your good beleife? My dutye checks myne anger, or I should—

Eld. What should you?

Gab. Give your tast a bytternes.

Eld. I pray thee, doe; bytter thyngs expell poyson; See if my follyes may be purdgd a littill.

Gab. Spleene shall not taynte my goodnes So muche as to account your errors follyes; But, I proteste, were you another woman, I should be bouldlye seryous and tell you That all the wytts of chrystendome are spente In stryppinge the corrupted harte of smoothnes: And yet you thynke a smoothe perswadinge boy Beares all hys daunger in hys cheeke and eie! Shall weomen trust a sweete and courtlye face When they themselves deceyve most by the face? Why serves our owne dissemblinge arte if we Cannot suspect when others doe dissemble?

Eld. True, daughter; love is like the weassell that went into the meale-chamber; it comes in a littill chyncke no bygger then our eie syghte, but haveinge a whyle fedd on imagynatyon dreames sonnetts to the tune of syghes and heyhos; it growes plumpe and full of humor; it asks a crannye as bygg as a conye borrowe to gett out agayne.

Gab. And wherefore then should I trust in the face? Mother, tys true your sonne, my cruell brother, The toe much wise, toe subtyll Ganelon, Onlye withdrawes Richards affectyon. Even to my selfe a swore a should not love me; And who that knowes hym, knowes he is not ledd By the charme of hys voyce onlye?

Eld. Trust me, wenche, Twas tyrannye to speake so; but in thys Where lyethe our preventyon?

Gab. Onlye thus: You must by all meanes styrre dissentyon Twixte Rychard and my brother, tourne their loves To mortall hate and emulatyon; Which but effected, Richard suer will love Bee't but alone to crosse hys enemye.

Eld. Content thy selfe, gyrle. There is not the malytious creature nowe liveinge, no, not a venemous and craftie stepdame, nor a tale-carr[y]inge, truthe-pervertinge gossypp cann make theire seedes of enmytie poyson the love of parentts, husbands, neighbours or good fellowshypp sooner or more effectuallye then I will crosse theire frendshypp. But to better purpose—

Gab. Peace, no more: here comes the aged byshopp The kyngs inamord darlinge.

Enter Turpin.

Tur. Best ladye, well encounterd: howe runns chaunce With your deare sonne, my good lord Ganelon?

Eld. Better then envye wishes, gratyous sir. Lost from the courte he left behynde hym there All cares and all vexatyons: nowe he sleepes, Eats, drynks and laughes, and, but when he dothe sweate, Moves not hys hatt tyll bedd tyme; dothe not fawne, Nor croutche, nor crynge, nor startche his countenance; Is not tane up with other mens affayres But onlye looks to's owne comodytie.

Tur. Hys chaunge was passynge happye then, it seemes.

Gab. Bothe for hymselfe and hys; for, greate sir, nowe He onlye wayts on hys partycullar, Seeks from a cuntrye comonwealth to rayse All hys to cuntrye fortunes; which, they say, Is safest, surest, and least envyed.

Tur. Why, prettie Ladye, you'le not leave the courte?

Eld. Yes, gratyous lorde; I'me sent to bringe her thence. Our pore retyred famylie must plante Theire braunches in the broade ayre, not be plashd[91] Or propt agaynst the walls of pallaces.

Tur. I doe comend your tempers, but, madam, tys Hys highnes pleasure, for some spetyall ende Onlye to hym reveald, that instantlye Your sonne repayre to'th courte, which I intreate You will imparte unto hym.

Eld. Most willinglie; Yet suer I knowe hys harte [is] settled there Which to the courte is a contrarye spheare.

[Ex. Eldegr. and Gab.

Tur. Howe prettylie theise weomen can dissemble! … … … … … O tys a foule and damned sorcerye And maks the best of wisdome and of men, Of fame and fortytude, more loosse then ayre, Foolishe as idyotts, basse as cowardysse. Why I am even rackt with complyment And torturde past all suffrance; age nor sexe Houlde difference in thys incantatyon. But I will trye it further, harke a comes; Nowe must I passe the pike of lunacye.

Enter Charlimayne, La Busse and Richard.

Char. Come, come, my dearest; wherefore doe you starve My quycke desyers with your so cruell absence? I pray thee tender my declyninge age, Stande allways neare that I may never faynte; For thou inspyrst in me more strengthe and life Then mightie nature when she made me younge.

Tur. Sir, I have allways beene your humblest servante.

Char. O you dyssemble fynelye!

Tur. I protest, sir.

Char. Nay, then I may beleive you flatter me, But say thou dost and seeme to love me dearelye, For I confess, as freelye as I love, One littell sparke of thee outbuys my kyngdome; And when my kyngdomes gone pray what am I? A pore decrepyd mysserable thynge That needs no greater plauge then adge and wrinckles.

Tur. Indeed your passyon is toe vyolent. I doe adore you next to dietie [sic] And will lay downe my life for you to treade on.

Char. Oh[92] nowe religion teache me to beleive Another god, or I must forfayte heaven And worshypp what I see, thys happy creature. Nowe courtyers flatterye cannot keepe my sence From knowinge what I feele, for I am weake: Tys all my comfort nowe to thynke on thee Who bryngst my captive soule to libertie. Chuse then a fytt rewarde, examyne all, All my domynions and authoryties; Thynke what may please thee, make a full request Or I shall growe a burthen to thy favors.

Tur. What shall I aske, that in your favours have All that I can desyer?

Char. Nay, aske me somethynge: Come, tell't in myne eare?

Bus. What thynke you, lorde? Has any favrytt all he can desyer.

Rich. Yes, and a be contented.

Bus.—Right, sir, thats the questyon, but can a favoryte be so easylie contented?

Rich.—Most easylie, being such a worthy reverend prellatt.

Bus.—Foote, man, let him be ten thousand preists[93] and a will styll wante somethynge. Give hym but tyme and a wadger with thee, Richard, he asks somewhat. See, see, the emperour instructs hym; a good oulde loveinge soule and he is a good ould love he has chossen. I doe not nowe blame hys doatinge on my sister.

Rich.—No more, no more, tys daungerous jestinge with edge toole[s], muche more with prynces.

Bus.—If prynces have edgtooles I graunte it; but does his grave majestie looke like a lorde of that mettall? Come, come, be not seveare; let us prate whylst they whysper.

Rich.—Is that good manners?

Bus.—Shall not we doe as the kynge does; manners give place to pollycie and I am suer greate formall outsyds thynke it an aspyringe pollycie to doe or seeme to doe as the kinge dothe.

Rich.—Come, thou art wanton!

Bus.—As the Bishopp is costyve in hys begging. Twere a myrackle should he aske nothynge. Let me see: does no bodye stande in his way to be removed? (thanks to heaven my father is shrunke allreadye) or does not somebodye stand toe farre of that a would draw nearer. Somewhat there must be.

Char. How now, cossen, what says La Busse?

Bus. Marrye, my lorde, I say if you should give half the libertye of begginge to a courtyer of myne acquayntance that you gave to the Byshopp, you would be beggd out of your whole kyngdome in a cople of mynuts.

Char. Like enough, for thy acquayntance are foule beggarlye companyons; yet would thy father had thy vertue.—But, sweete frend, Assure thy selfe th'ast fyxte my resolutyon As fyrme as destenye, and I will give All satisfactyon to the Palladyne.

Tur. It wilbe royall in you.

Enter Ganelon.

Char. Kysse me, sweete.—O you are wellcome; stand up. And howe does thys retyred life agree With Ganelon?

Gan. As Ganelon with it, Most desolatlye, sir. I have induerd Subjection to my fate since last I sawe you; In all which haplesse bondage I have gaynd [Not one] howers comforte tyll twas dooblye yearnd Synce fyrst I knewe what sleepe and wakinge mente I never slepte in quyett nor awakt But with a hartye wishe to sleepe my last. Not a pore simple jest hathe made me smyle Tyll I had payd the tribute of my cares Over and over. Fortune has opposd My naturall blessings and my wishest ends; Those verye honors which my byrthright claymes Have cost me more vexatyon to preserve Than all the numerous tyttells of a kynge Purchasd with plauge and famyne; yet in all My days of sorrowe I was styll to learne A suffrynge of that impyous accounte Which nowe afflycts me.

Char. O you are conynge.

Tur. Yes, and may teach the worlde to counterfayte.

Enter Orlando, Reinaldo and Oliver.

But here comes the earle of Angeres.

Char. Nephewe, y'are discontented and I woulde Give all rights to your honor, which did cause Me latelye thus to send for you.

Orl. Tys true, You sent unto me, sir, and I obayd And came: but then, Sir, what became of me? You sente me presentlye away for Spayne. Nay, never frowne, I doe remember thys As well methynks as if it hapned nowe.

Char. Your memoryes toe blame; you doe mistake.

Orl. O that I could mistake or never thynke Uppon thys daylie terror to my sence. Sir, tys a thyng I labour to mystake But cannot, for my starrs will have it thus.

Char. You wronge your fortunes and convert theire good Into a stronge disease.

Orl. So pray you tourne me then into an hospytall, I have a straunge disease. But, gratyous Sir, Littill thought I, when I departed hence And conquerd you all Spayne, to tourne diseasd.

Char. Be patyent, and Ile undertake the cuer.

Orl. Oh I should shame your physsycke, though indeede Tys the kyngs evyll I am trobled with, But such a rare kyngs evyll that I feare My chyldrens chyldren wilbe taynted with't.

Rei.—A touches hym most bouldlye.

Oli.—Even to the quycke of hys last maryadge.

Orl. Beleive't, my sycknes is like the disease Which runns styll in a blood, nay more extreame, For frends and kyndred bothe must feele my cursse: But what good man can well escape a cursse When Emperours, that should be absolute, Will take advyse from everye shyftinge sycophant?

Gan. Mallyce and factyon could have sayd no more.

Orl. Are you then guyltie of advyse, my lorde?

Gan. Sir, if the kynge accuse me I submytt.

Char. I must accuse you bothe, but punnyshe one, You, Ganelon, I meane: there dothe belonge Unto your fault muche more then banishment. I heare discharge you of all offyces, Honors and tyttells or whatere exceeds The slender name of a pore gentyllman. Besyds I fyne you out of your estate At fortye thousand crownes, and never hence To see the courte, but live thence banyshed. Nephewe, this may suffyce you; if't be light Ile lay more burthens on hym.—Come, best frende.

Orl. Sir, I desyer no mans miserye.

[Ex. Cha., Turp.

Gan. Then welcome once agayne my libertie! Nowe, my sweete frend, may I discourse with thee And utter my dystractyon; only nowe Can I retayne thee fullye in my bossome. Before I was devyded in my selfe, The emperour and the state did clayme a parte; But all my frendshypp nowe is undisturbd And onlye thou shalt have what manye had, My best imployments and my whole desyers.

Rich. You are a juell fytter for the State, And I feare what will followe. Sure th'emperoure, Has loosend everye pearle about hys crowne In loosinge you, the glorye of hys kingdome.

Gan. No, no, he shall complayne that wantinge me He wants his refudge, and my glorye then Shalbe to scorne hys favors whylst my thoughts Onlye take pleasure in a perfytt frende, Which is your selfe, that onlye … to me … … enoughe to caper … … …

Orl. What meanes he by theise frantycke sygnes of myrthe? Cossen Reinaldo, cossen Oliver, Why does he growe thus guyddie?

Gan. What says the emperours nephewe? does he grudge That I should take a pore content in shame? Your envye will discredite you, my lorde. Gentyllmen, have you not hearde of Aesopps dogge That once lay snarlinge in the oxes maunger?

Orl. Rei. Oli. What then?

Gan. He was an arrant peevyshe curre, Nothynge but so; and I protest syncerlye I would have hangd that dogge (had he beene myne) Althoughe a lyonnesse had beene hys dame.

Orl. Your dogs comparysons a saucye foole.

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.