Orl.  What meanes he by theise frantycke sygnes of myrthe? 
Cossen Reinaldo, cossen Oliver,
Why does he growe thus guyddie?

Gan.  What says the emperours nephewe? does he grudge
That I should take a pore content in shame? 
Your envye will discredite you, my lorde. 
Gentyllmen, have you not hearde of Aesopps dogge
That once lay snarlinge in the oxes maunger?

Orl.  Rei.  Oli.  What then?

Gan.  He was an arrant peevyshe curre,
Nothynge but so; and I protest syncerlye
I would have hangd that dogge (had he beene myne)
Althoughe a lyonnesse had beene hys dame.

Orl.  Your dogs comparysons a saucye foole.

Gan.  Sir, I am just of your opynion I;
For what extreame beast but a foolishe curre
Would envye that which he hym selfe dispyses? 
Be not offended, Sir, thoughe symple I
Can live in peace at home with hungrye leeks
And never curse my planettes.  I can leape
With more actyvitie then yesterday.—­Capers. 
Does thys offend you, Sir?

Orl.  Exceedinglye.

Rei.  Were you thus nymble ever from a boy?

Gan.  No, in good faythe it taks me of the sodayne.

Oli.  Your harte is lighter then it needs, I doute.

Gan.  Yes, and your heade is lighter then your heeles.

Bus.  It is the honor of hys gravitie
Not to be shaken with rydiculous winds
Of envye or of scandall.  Good Sir, thynke
His resolutyons nowe his champyons.

Gan.  Syrha, no more; you shall goe home with me
And learne to laughe at fortune; I have there
A worthye matche and vertuous wife for thee
And she shall pyle up all your flatterye: 
The courte hath no use for it.—­Sir, methought
You talkt of lightnes, did you not?

Orl.  Yes, that your heade is lighter then your heeles.

Gan.  It is, I thanke my starres; howe can it chuse,
Beinge disburdend of so manye feares,
So much attendance and so manye synnes
By losse of my late offyces?  I am bounde
(My contyence knowes it well) to blesse your lordshipp
If you or others moved the emperour
To my displaceinge.  I am nowe unloaded
Of all the wayghtie cares that did oppresse me,
And shall I not discover what I am. 
A nymble and a newe borne quyet man. [Capers.]
—­Does thys offend you?

    Enter Turpin.

Tur.  Where’s lorde Richard?

Rich.  Here, reverend Sir.

Tur.  Hys majestie comands you uppon payne
Of life and your aleagance that from hence
You never more conversse with Ganelon
Eyther by letter, speeche or complyment. 
No not so much as see hym; and withall
You must imediatlye attend his hyghnes.

Rich.  I am hys servant.
                                [Ex.  Tur., Rich.