? 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