Gan.  Tyll nowe I neare felt thunder, I am strooke To deathe with mans soft languadge.  Come away:  Tyll nowe I neare saw trulye a sadd day.

[Ex.  Can., La Busse.

Orl.  Wherefore did the angrye emperour Degrade thys merrye lorde?  To pleasure me, Did he not, cossen?

Rei.  Yes, to satisfye The wronge he did in plottinge of your deathe.

Orl.  He did so, righte, but tys as fruytlesse all As catchynge of the moone:  tys past mans power To take away my cursse of destenye.

Oli.  Tys that opynion multyplyes your cursse.

Orl.  Had any man but such a slave as I
Look’t to have tryumphd in hys base dejection
And he should have beene glutted with hys fortunes,
Whylst I and all the projects I can make
Cannot (with fortunes leave) gett a good dreame.

Rei.  Doe not so blame your fortunes, worthye cossen:  You have in many actyons prosperd well.

Orl.  Good, doe not studye how to flatter me;
I am in althyngs most unfortunate. 
Witnes my fyrst love to Angellica, ... ... ... my cursse ... ... ... 
My manye shypwracks, my halfe combattings,
Charmes and inchauntments or whatever ells
Can breake the harte of resolutyon.

Rei.  What say you to your conquests?

Orl.  Tut, in thosse
Fortune did never medle:  honor there
Served in her person, not by substytute. 
Instead of which pore blessinge not a day
Hathe hapned synce without some mysserye. 
Wheres now my hope of byrthrighte, where all Fraunce? 
Drownd in the cradle of a chamber groome. 
And now, just now, resolveinge to aflycte
That myserable lorde, he doth dispyse
Me & hys shame, because in me it lyes. 
By heaven I will release hym!

Rei.  Nothinge so:  Pray leave thys angrye moode and followe me; Ile add a torment to hys mysserye.

[Exe.

[SCENE 2.]

Enter Eudon, Eldegrade, Bertha & Gabrielle.

Eud.  Ile sooner shrynke back when my lifes assaulted
Then when my promyse shalbe claymd (good madam). 
I promysd to your lorde that Bertha here,
My daughter, should be marryed to hys sonne,
And Ile perform’t; for onlye to that ende
I’ve brought her nowe.

Eld.  And, Sir, tis noblye doone;
I knowe the matche is more desyred by hym
Then the kyngs favors, which at thys tyme he
Is laboringe to recover, but’s retourne
I knowe wilbe most sodayne.

Eud.  Weele attend it.

Gab.  Hey hoe.

Ber.  Why syghes thou, frende?

Gab.  Not at your joys but myne afflyctyons. 
Your in a good way, Bertha, ryde spurrd on,
May come unto your journey:  I must tyre,
Theres not a swytche or prycke to quycken me.

Ber.  Yes, when younge Rychard hunts your purlue ground.  Come, I doe know you will not chaunge your ryder.