Did.  Sir, Ile attend hym. [Ex.  La Busse. 
                            Yet I’ve heard a tale
Of a feirce snake that wounded by a swayne
Rememberd it for twentye yeares together
And at the last revendgd it; so may he. 
I, but another tale tells of an asse
Which haveinge throwne hys cruell ryder wente
In pyttie to the surgeon, who recurd
The sycklie man & reconcyld the asse. 
Why may not Ganelon be like the asse
And thys fayre messadge like the curynge surgeon? 
Ile trye it; synce Orlando is unsuer,
Tys Ganelon from whence may come my cure.

[Ex.  Didier.

[SCENE 2.]

Enter Ganelon, Eldegrad & Gabriella.

Gan.  Good mother, syster, deare spyrrytts, doe not haunte me: 
I will not from eternytie beleive
That Richard is unfaythfull.

Eld.  No, runne on,
Swallowe thy shames like full bytts tyll they choake you
And make the people prophesye that you
Shalbe undoone by your false Ganimede.

Gan.  A poxe uppon the people!  Would you have Me to depend uppon theire orackles?

Gab.  Depend on your owne goodnes; doe not trust
A traytor in your bossome. Richard, they say
Hathe begd your honor and your offyces: 
Hes counte of Poyteers, marquysse of Saluca.

Eld.  Cunstable & master of the ordnance.

Gan.  It cannot be nor will I credyt it.

Eld.  Then perishe in your dullnes.  Nay, sir, more;
It was hys earnest suyt to the emperoure
To be dyvorst your presence:  I can prove it.

Gab.  And I that he by secret charmes hathe sought To make spoyle of myne honor, but in vayne Doe I complayne where theres no profyttinge.

Fue.  In the way of ordynarye curtesye I doe salute you, & notwithstandinge my greatnes grace you to give you thys, &, ladye, you thys. [Gives letters.

Gan.  Why, howe nowe? what motyons thys?  Is the knave falne out with hys five sences.

Fue. Ganelon, no, but in love with my knowne vertues.—­Hould, theres your yarde [gives hys coate] & a halfe of somers wearynge.  Frends we mett, frends we parte:  if you please me I may prayse you, if you seeke me you may fynd me, a loves littill that loves longe; and so I leave you to the tuytion.

Gan.  Heyday, the knaves lunatycke! syrha sott ... ... ... ... ...

[Fue.] ... ...  Tys daungerous for your shynns; take heede of my[schief].  Favorytts are not without their steccados, imbrocados & pun[to]-reversos[96].  No more but so:  you have no honor, no offyce, littill land, lesse money, least wytt.  Y’are a pore man & I pyttie you.  When next you see me tys in the emperours bossome.

[Ex.  La Fue.

Gan.  Whats thys? scornd of my drudge, mockt & abusd?  Foote!  I will throwe my dager after hym.