Enter La Busse.

Rei.  Smoother your passions, Sir:  here comes his sonne—­
A propertie oth court, that least his owne
Ill manners should be noted thynks it fytt
In pollycie to scoffe at other mens. 
He will taxe all degrees and think that that
Keepes hym secure from all taxation.

Orl.  Y’are deceyved; it is a noble gentylman And hated of his father for hys vertues.

Bus.  Healthe and all blessings[87] wherewith heaven and earthe May comforte man, wayte on your excellence!

Orl.  Although I know no mans good wyshe or prayrs
Can ere be heard to my desyred good,
I am not so voyde of humanitie
But I will thanke your love.

Rei.  Pray, sir, what newse Hath the court lately been deliverd of?

Bus.  Such as the gallimaufry that is found
In her large wombe may promise:  he that has
The fayrest vertues weares the foulest shyrte
And knows no shyfte for’t:  none but journeymen preists
Invay agaynst plurallytie of liveings
And they grow hoarse ithe cause, yet are without
The remedye of sugar candye for’t. 
Offices are like huntinge breakfasts gott
Hurlye burlye, snatcht with like greedynes,
I & allmost disjested too as soone.

Oli.  I, but in sober sadness whatts done there?

Bus.  Faythe, very littill, Sir, in sober sadnes,
For there disorder hurryes perfect thyngs
To mere confussyon:  nothing there hath forme
But that which spoyles all forme, & to be shorte
Vice only thrives and merryt starves in courte.

Rei.  What of the maryadge of your noble aunte Our fayre eied royall empresse?

Bus.  Trothe, I wonderd, Sir,
You spoke of that no sooner, yet I hope
None here are jealyous that I brought one sparke
To kyndell that ill flame.

Orl.  No, of my trothe, I know thee much too honest; but how fares The Empresse now, my dear exequetresse?

Bus.  Sir, as a woman in her case may doe; Shee’s broughte [to] bedd.

Rei.  What, has she a chylde, then?

Bus.  I, my Lord.

Orl.  A Sonne!

Bus.  Mys-fortune hath inspyrd you, Sir; tys true.

Orl.  Nay when my fortune faylls me at a pynche I will thynke blasphemy a deede of merrytt.  O harte, will nothing breake the?

Rei.  Tis most straunge.

Orl.  Straunge?  Why, if she had been spayd
And all mankynd made Euenucks, yet in spyghte
My ill fate would have gotten her with chylde—­
Of a son, too.  Hencefourthe let no man
That hathe a projecte he dothe wishe to thryve
Ere let me knowe it.  My mere knowledge in’t
Would tourne the hope’t successe to an event
That would fryghte nature & make patyence braule
With the most pleasinge objecte.

Bus.  Sir, be at peace; Much may be found by observatyon.