[Exeunt.

[SCENE 3.]

    Enter Orlando, Reinaldo, Oliver.

Orl.  Pray, thee, good coosse, perswade not my beleife;
I cannot stoope[97] the harte of Ganelon. 
My crosse unhappye fortune hathe decreed
A never shalbe conquerd; any ells,
Should a but vowe to conquer 50 worlds,
I would beleive a myght doo’t:  onlye I
Shall never master a dejected slave.

Rei.  Indeede tys but your passyon so perswads you.

Oli.  Be not fantastyque; that which we perswade
Hathe bothe an eassye and a certayne way,
Nor can it yeild to you a syngle joye
But muche redoobled sweetnes.  And behould
Here comes the newe made marquesse.

Enter Richard.

                                    Good sweete lorde,
Give my free speche suer passadge.
... ... ... ... ...

0l.  Foote! thys newe pyle of honor walks as if A would knocke patts with heaven.

Rich.  Tys not unlike Your owne true pryde dothe make you speculous.

Rei.  Tys farre shorte of youre sweete harte Ganelons.

Rich.  Sir, hees a noble gentyllman.

Oli.  A Baboone, A verye windye caske of emptynes.

Rich.  I wonder y’are so impudent.  My frende
Hath vertues lefte:  if you had eyther shame
Or charytie you would accuse your lybells. 
But as the ravens which in Arabia live,
Haveinge flowne all the feylde of spyces ore,
Seaze on a stynkinge carkasse, so doe you
Swiftlye leape over a most plentyous vale
Of good examples which grace Ganelon
And fasten on the scandall which was formd
By a lewde treacherous knave to gett rewarde.

Oli.  I give your aplycatyon the broade lye.

Rich.  And tys thy last foule languadge.
                                   [Offer to Drawe.

Orl.  Hould! who drawes must be myne enemye.

Rich.  I’m easlye chydd from tumulte, but, deare Sir,
Tell me in pryvatt howe you dare maynteyne it.
          
                                  [Whisper.

Enter alofte[98] Ganelon.

Gan.—­Yonder a stands consultinge with my foes. 
Perhapps thys present mynute he reveales
My systers whoredome, or to take away
All feare of my revendge he now contryves
That my sadd deathe may fynishe my disgrace. 
Myne eies are dazeld, but it is no wonder,
For in that glassye fellowe I dyserne
The true reflectyon of my fate & feares. 
Tys he, tys he; there wants but a good crossbowe[99]
To levell at hys harte nowe.  I began
A littill synce to chide my rashe beleife
And so was readye to tourne foole agayne;
But I am nowe deliverd & hencefourthe,
If wisdome or occassyon doe me righte,
I will determine never to mystake. 
Heres a full proofe of what my mother spake.