Char.  Thys is dyrect.

Gan.  A dyrect vyllanye! 
If suche proofes may prevayle gaynst any man,
Any such slave, discarded for’s badd life,
May make hys former master forfayte hys;
You may in ten days hange up all your nobles
And yet have lawe for’t.  But if any man
(Thys slave except), although hys synns would make
The sunne put on a cloud to shame his syghte
And the grasse wither with his loathed ...,
Will justefye thys accusatyon,
Ile remayne destitute of all replye.

Char.  Nephewe, what other proofe have you?

Orl.  Your majestie sees all,
And the thyrde parte of that product gaynst me
Or gaynst another man (for anye ellse)
Would be enoughe.

Rei.  Why, in suche casses, where basse pollycie Works on the lives of prynces, God forbydd But one mans oathe should stand for testymonye.

Oli.  Espetyallye where cyrcumstances leade
Dyrectlye to the poynte he aymethe at. 
All Fraunce dothe knowe he hates the Palladyne.

Ric.  In soothe I doe not thynke so.  Envyes tonges Are sharpe and manye, and they ever cleave Most to’th oppressed, oft to’th inocent.

Rei.  Doe not deceyve your selfe out of your love.  Brother, tys knowne he is most treacherous.

Bus.  Worthy Reinaldo, carrye better thoughts:  My father is your servant, and dothe love you.

Rei.  Would a loved vertue as I knowe you doe, I then would honor hym.  Uppon my life In thys he is most guyltye.

Char.  Come, no more. 
There is some cyrcomstance but no due proofe,
And from that grounde my nephewe shall perceyve
Howe dearlye I doe pryze him. Ganelon,
Hencefourthe you never more shall see the courte: 
Yare banysht thence.  You have a cuntrye house,
Let that receyve you:  when you thence departe
Your life is forfayte.  Away!

Gan.  I doe obay
Your Majestye.
                       [Exe.  Gan., La Busse.

Orl.  Is thys a punishment?

Rei.  Tys a disgrace, best cossen.

Did.  And noble bloode Hathe more sence of disgrace then wounds.

Orl.  Hence, slave! 
By heaven a does rewarde hym for hys synne. 
Was ever man like me unfortunate? 
Not see the courte! why tys the greatest favor
In a kyngs guyfte, and had hys hyghnes pleasd
T’have sent me to deathe we had bothe beene easd.

    Enter Turpin.

Char.  O my deare sweete! where has my best frend beene? 
My joy of life, my ages comforter! 
Indeede I’ve had a tedyous mysse of thee.

Tur.  What meanes your majestie?

Char.  I meane to live for ever on thy necke
And bathe thy bossome with my joyfull teares. 
O thou arte sweete and lovelye as the sprynge,
Freshe as the mornynge on the blushinge rosse
When the bright sonne dothe kysse it.