Did.  Aboute them, Syr, and doute not thys. [Exit Ganelon. 
Yet methynks it were not fytt in polycie
To venture all in one pore shallowe boate,
The sea of state goeinge so rough and hye. 
Factyons in courte are like to suyts in lawe
Where goulde and grace keepe equytie in awe;
And but thys maryadge rules the emperoure,
Who shall protect me in so many ways
Leading to severall and confused ends? 
I will keepe no dyrecte one but even wander
As myne owne proper saftie shall direct me. 
And though I wishe my lorde may rayse his bloode,
Yet that wishe should give way to myne owne good.

Enter La Busse, Gabriella and Bertha.

Bus.  Save Mounseire Didier!

Did.  Mounseir La Busse, my lords most loved sonne,
Your companye is fayre.
                                       [Exit Didier.

Gab.  The fellowe mocks us.

Bus.  Had a sayd good too, then you might have douted, But fayr’s an epethyte you bothe may challenge.

Ber.  And why not good?

Bus.  A courtier might have spared it
And as he is a courtier beene excusd
Thoughe it were false; for he whose tonge and harte
Runne one selfe course shall seldome find the way
To a preferment.  Nowe the courte is growne
As strange a beast as the thronged multytude,
Dyffers not from the rabble, onlye tys
The upper house.

Ber.  Why will you be a lymbe Of such a beast?

Bus.  Faythe, onlye for sporte sake.

Gab.  I rather thynke to make it more deformd.

Buss.  Be not so bytter, ladye.  Howe can I,
Though I shoulde onlye studye vanytie,
Be seene amongst so manye that out-glosse me
In everye severall follye.

Ber.  Yet littill Richard, Aimons youngest sonne, Is suche a man your envye cannot taxe hym.

Gab.  Mallyce with all her poysons cannot wounde Hys faire deserved reputatyon.

Bus.  Sytts the wynde there?

Gab.  Yes, syr, and blowes me hence In quest of hym I doe so much affecte. [Ex.  Gabriella.

Ber.  Stay, Ile goe with you.

Bus.  Oh, by no meanes, madam; Methynkes your longe attendance at the courte Should make you not so apt to spoyle good sporte.

Ber.  Sdeath! sporte! pray let me goe.

Bus.  Not yet, by Venus.  You fyrst shall knowe my soule hath deeplye vowed My love and servyce to your excellent selfe.

Ber.  Verye good sir,
I knowe y’are sonne unto the Mynion. 
But yet I knowe your father loves you not,
And thats good too.

Bus.  If truthe at courte be good For any thynge, then, madam, you say true.  For tys most true that I—­

Ber.  Pray let me goe.