Did.  Bothe those are, Sir, prevented by the dytche, Whose deepe banks seeme to be halfe bottomlesse, Where he is layd a rottinge.

Gan.  Without all helpe! counsayle in thys were daungerous.

Did.  Sir, I was fryer & clarke & all my selfe; None mournd but nyghte, nor funerall tapers bore But erringe starres.

Gan.  And they did erre indeed To shewe their lights at hys curst funerall.  Did not a dog bewray thee?

Did.  Baw, waw, waw!  Sir, troble not your selfe
With any doute oth’ secrecye was usd
In actinge your comand.  And, Sir, because
I will not have it rest within my power
At anye tyme to wronge or to traduce
Your honour by a probable suspytion,
Receyve thys letter which atts buryall
I founde in’s pockett.  Sir, it might concerne you,
                [Give the letter & Ganelon reads. 
And deeplye toe, if it should be reveald. 
—­It calls up all hys bloode into hys face
And muche dystempers hym.

Gan.  Deathe!  I am lost in treason:  my fordgd hand
Hathe whored my liveinge syster & displays
All my basse plotts agaynst the emperoure. 
By heaven tys false, fordgd, false as heresye!

Did.  How! a fordgd hand?

Gan.  Yes, Didier.  When was it dated, trow? 
Torment! synce my restraynt of libertie! 
Good gentyll patyence manadge me a whyle,
Let me collect.  Certaynlye Rychards harte
Coulde not but doubte thys charrackter, & in
The strengthe of doute he came to me last nyghte
To be resolvd; or ells why should he beare
Suche daunger in hys pockett?  Admyttinge thys,
What followes then?  Why, if that were the ende
Of’s vysytatyon, then it needs must followe
That thys prevayld not with hym.  And what then? 
Why, then my syster, as all weomen ells,
Seeinge her selfe neglected in her lust,
Thought any ill way to obtayne it just.

Did.  A strange presumptyon.

Gan.  Yet a lyttill further. 
It is resolvd that my systers onlye ende
Was to enjoy Rychard unlawfullye: 
Howe might a fallinge out twyxt hym & me
Assyst the ende (for such a thynge she causd)? 
How? 
What a dull slave am I! why twas as muche
As the untyinge of hys codpeyce poynte,
Almost the rem in re! for whyle he stoode
Constant to my dyrectyons all was well,
But, those abandond, then,—­harte!  I am madd: 
I pray thee, Diddier, helpe me to cursse
Me & my rashnes, that so curbd my reason
I would not heare hym speake but put hym strayght
To everlastynge sylence.

Did.  No, my lorde, Letts cursse the lust of woman.

Gan.  Well rememberd.

Did.  And yet there is a heavye one prepard To meete them where they act it in the darke.

Gan.  True, Didier, there is so, and from that May penytence want power to rescue theym.