Gan.  Speake it out,—­ What, not a worde? dumbe with a littill blowe?  You are growne statlye, are you? tys even so:  You have the trycke of mightie men in courte To speake at leasure and pretend imployment.  Well, take your tyme; tys not materyall Whether you speake the resydue behynde Now or at doomes day.  If thy common sence Be not yet parted from thee, understand I doe not misse thee dyinge because once I loved thee dearlye; and collect by that There is no Devyll in me nor in hell That could have flesht me to this violent deathe Hadst thou beene false to all the world but me.

The concentrated bitterness of those lines is surpassed by nothing in the Revenger’s Tragedy.  Indeed, I am inclined to believe that the whole play, which is very unskilfully constructed, is by Tourneur, or perhaps by the author[281] of the Second Maiden’s Tragedy.  All the figures are shrouded in a blank starless gloom; to read the play is to watch the riot of devils.  Here is an extract from the scene where Orlando, returning from the wars, hears that Charlemagne, his uncle, has married Ganelon’s niece, and that his own hopes of succession have been ruined by the birth of a son:—­

Orl[ando.] I am the verye foote-ball of the starres, Th’anottomye of fortune whom she dyssects With all the poysons & sharpe corrosyves Stylld in the lymbecke of damde pollycie.  My starres, my starres!  O that my breath could plucke theym from theire spheares So with theire ruyns to conclude my feares.

        Enter La Buffe.

Rei[naldo.] Smoother your passions, Sir:  here comes his sonne—­ A propertie oth court, that least his owne Ill manners should be noted thyeks it fytt In pollycie to scoffe at other mens.  He will taxe all degrees & thynke that that Keepes hym secure from all taxation.

    Orl.  Y’are deceyvd; it is a noble gentyllman
    And hated of hys father for hys vertues.

    Buf.  Healthe and all blessinge wherewith heauen and earthe
    May comforte man, wayte on your excellence!

Orl.  Although I know no mans good wyshe or prayrs Can ere be heard to my desyred good, I am not so voyde of humanytie But I will thancke your loue.

    Rei.  Pray, Sir, what newse
    Hath the courte latterly beene deliverd of?

Buf.  Such as the gallymaufry that is fownd In her large wombe may promise:  he that has The fayrest vertues weares the foulest shyrte And knowes no shyfte for’t:  none but journeymen preists Invay agaynst plurallytie of liueinge And they grow hoarse ithe cause, yet are without The remedye of sugar candye for’t.  Offices are like huntinge breakfasts gott Hurlye burlye, snatcht with like greedynes, I & allmost disjested too assoone.

    Oli[ver].  I, but in sober sadnes whatts doone there?