inge 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,
Roun