Orl.  Th’arte bothe unfriendlie & uncharytable. 
Thys observation thou advysest to
Would ryvett so my thoughts uppon my fate
That I should be distrackt.  I can observe
Naughte but varyetye of mysseries
Crossynge my byrthe, my blood and best endevours. 
I neare did good for any but great Charles,
And the meare doing that hath still brought forth
To me some plague too heavye to be borne,
But that I am reservd onlye to teach
The studyed envye of mallignant starrs. 
If fortune be blynde, as the poetts houlde,
It is with studyinge myne afflictions;
But, for her standing on a roullinge stone,
Theire learninge faylls them, for she fixed stands
And onlye against me.

Rei.  Move hym no further;
But if your observatyon can fynde out
A coneinge in the carryadge of theise ills
That may be questioned, Ile thanke your love,
And be your servant:  pray be inquisitive.

Orl.  Inquiseytive? for what? my miseryes
Requyer no searche, they playnlye shewe themselves,
And in theire greatnes crowne what made them greate. 
The power of Fortune, which by theym beinge crownd
Doth tyrannize uppon me.

    Enter Didier.

Did.  Healthe attend
Thys honord presence! may your wellcome home
Retayne proportion with those worthye deeds
Whereby y’ave yearn’d all wellcome.

Orl.  What is he?

Did.  Howe ere my dutye and best wishes shall
Ever attend you, and those wishes be
Putt into acte to doe you anye servyce.

Bus.  Thart a grosse flatterer, and knowe there is
More sympathye betwixte mere contraryes
Then twixte thy words and wishes.

Did.  Then your knowledge
Has no true ryghte doone to it, beinge so greate
To be so littill famed.  I never hearde
That you ere did or durst knowe any thynge
But dynner tyme & coronatyon day,
The tylters collours & theire pages suytts,
But to theire Empresas[88] you styll gave up
An Ignoramus.

Bus.  Th’art a parasytte;
Thou & thy fortunes wayte uppon my father
And like an evyll aungell make hym doe
Those fearful thyngs I tremble to delyver. 
Therefore the love which thou protestest here
Can be at best but fayn’d & beares more shewe
Of treacherye then zeale.

Did.  How say you by that?

Orl. Ganelon’s servant!  Will it not suffyce
The mallyce of my starres to presse me downe
With a most pondrous wayghte of injuryes
But they must keepe me wakinge with the syghte
O’ th’authors on’t, to myxe my sufferings
With heate and anger?  Syrha, howe dare you
Upbrayd me with your presence? or doe you thynke
My wrongs and fortune have made me so tame
That I am a fytt subject for your spleene,
Your trencher envye & reverssyon rage? 
Or arte so greate an Infydell to doute
My mischeifes snayle-pacst that thou spurst on newe
In full carryere uppon me?