Bus.  Hell take thy hopes and thee!

Did.  But I would have
You understand that I may rise agayne
Without the catchinge of a rotten boarde
To keepe bare life and mysserye together
To fyght eche other.

Bus.  Furyes fryght thy soule! 
Is a good mans ill fate thy nourishment? 
Noble Orlando, what omynous fatell starre
Ruld thy nativitie that fire must be
Strooke out of Ice to ruyne all thy hopes: 
This marriage is their grave.

Did.  Sir, I may rayse A broken state by service.

Bus.  Yes, of the devyll
To whom thou art a factor.  Slave, ’tis thou
That hast undoone my father and increast
His evyll inclinatyons.  I have seene
Your conference with witches, night-spell knaves,
Connivynge mountebanks and the damned frye
Of cheating mathematicks.  And is this
The issue of your closse contryvances[84]? 
If in thys p[ro]myst throng of future ill
There may be found a way to anye good
Of brave Orlando the great palladyne,
My constant industry shall tyer the day
And outwatche night but I will fynde it for hym;
And yf to doe hym good—­

    Enter La Fue.

Fue.  Where’s Didier?

Did.  Here, thou contemptyble thynge that never werte
So free as to put on thyne owne ill hatt;
Thou that hast worne thy selfe and a blewe coate
To equall thryddbareness and never hadst
Vertue inough to make thee [be] preferrd
Before aught but a cloak bagge,—­what to me?

Fue.  The wishe of poxe enough to make thee all One entire scabb.  Dost thou abuse thy elders?

Did.  I cry your reverence mercye, I confes You are more antique.

Fue.  Antycke in thy face!  My lord shall knowe.

Did.  But pray thee let me fyrst Knowe what my lorde would have me knowe by thee.

Fue.  I scorne to tell thee or to talke with thee;
And yet a woulde speake with thee,—­and yet I will not tell thee;
Thou shalt shortlye knowe thou hadst bene better—­
I say no more; though my deserts be hydd
My adge is not, for I neare weare a hatt;
And that shalbe ballast to my complaynte
To make it goe more steadye to thy ruyne. 
It shall, dost heare, it shall. [Exit Fue.

Did.  Hence, chollerycke foole, Thy threats to me are like the kyngs desyer, As uneffectuall[85] as the gloawormes fyer.

    Loude musique.  Enter Charlimayne, Bishop Turpin,
    Ganelon, Richard, Theodora, Gabriella, and attendants.

Charl.  This musyque is to[o] dull to mix it selfe
With the full Joy I tast.  O Ganelon,
Teache me a meanes t’expresse the gratytude
I owe thy vertues for thys royall matche,
Whereby me thynks my ice is tournd to fyer,
My earthe to ayre; those twoe base elements
Can challendge nothinge in my composition,
As thou and Theodora now have made me: 
For whiche be thou our lorde greate Cunstable.