Gab.  Not if a would fall to hys exercyse.

Ber.  Th’art styll thy selfe (all madnes).—­But no more; Here comes your brother.

    Enter Ganelon, La Busse.

Eud.  Healthe to my noble lorde!

Gan.  You wishe me my worst enemye, yet, Sir,
Tys wellcome since you wishe it.  O I am
At thys tyme nothynge but extreame disgrace.

Eud.  Shake you for that?  Why, noble lorde, you knowe
Disgrace is ever like the greate assay
Which turnes imperfytt mettalls into fume
And shewes pure gould to have an absolute valewe
Because it styll remayns unchaungable
Disgrace can never scarre a good mans sence,
Tys an undaunted harte shoes Innocence: 
Shame in a guyltie man (like wounds & scratches
In a corrupted fleshe) may ranckell deepe,
Good mens dishonors heale before they weepe.

Gan.  Pray thee, noble Eudon, save thy selfe, And come not neare me; I am pestilent.

Eud.  I doe not feare infection.

Gan.  I knowe tharte noble & a man of warre,
One that hathe feard no mortall wound so muche
As to be recond fearfull; but the cause,
The cause of my dull ruyne must affryghte you
You have not flynte enoughe to arme your soule
Agaynst compassyon; & that kylls a souldior. 
Let me have roame to breathe at lardge my woes
And talke alone, least the proceedinge ayre
That easeth me beget in you a payne. 
Leave me, pray leave me:  my rude vyolence
Will halfe distract your spyrrytts, my sadd speeche
Like such a noyse as drownds all other noyse
Will so afflyct your thoughts & cares on me
That all your care besyde must be neglected. 
My tyme of patyence is expyrd; pray leave me.

Eld.  Ithe name of wonder, sir, what dothe afflyct you.

Eud.  You boare your banyshment most brave tyll nowe.

Gan.  I did, & could as quyetlye endure
To be exposd uppon the publique scaffold
To all myne enemyes contempt, but nowe
I’me more then banysht, all my honors lost,
My wealthe, my places everye one the kyngs;
I hardlye am a pryvate gentyllman. 
And more then thys, my onlye dearest frend,
My Richard, I must never see agayne.

Gab.—­Excellent newse! hould, there Ile honor thee.

Eud.  Why, all thys is a tryfell; suche a blast
As should not move a weake reede.  Come, I love
Your selfe and not your fortunes:  pray forgett em. 
See, I have brought my daughter, and desyer
The matche betwixt us may be consumate.

Gan.  O you are noble that can pyttie scorne!  And werte not for my frends losse all the rest I should loosse like my shadowe.

Eld.  I, and hym, When I have toulde you myne intelligence.  Come, hees not halfe so good as you imagine.

Gan.  Goe, y’are a woman, and that styll implyes Can be malytious.—­But are you then resolvd To match with myne ill fortunes?