,
Is suche a man your envye cannot taxe hym.

_Gab_. Mallyce with all her poysons cannot wounde
Hys faire deserved reputatyon.

_Bus_. Sytts the wynde there?

_Gab_. Yes, syr, and blowes me hence
In quest of hym I doe so much affecte. [_Ex. Gabriella_.

_Ber_. Stay, Ile goe with you.

_Bus_. Oh, by no meanes, madam;
Methynkes your longe attendance at the courte
Should make you not so apt to spoyle good sporte.

_Ber_. Sdeath! sporte! pray let me goe.

_Bus_. Not yet, by _Venus_.
You fyrst shall knowe my soule hath deeplye vowed
My love and servyce to your excellent selfe.

_Ber_. Verye good sir,
I knowe y'are sonne unto the Mynion.
But yet I knowe your father loves you not,
And thats good too.

_Bus_. If truthe at courte be good
For any thynge, then, madam, you say true.
For tys most true that I--

_Ber_. Pray let me goe.

_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