be 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 th