Did.  I disclayme Ganelons servyce other then to serve Your worthye ends, which is the onlye end Whertoe I ere seemd hys.

Bus.  Monstrous deceytfull vyllayne!

Orl.  Impossyble! 
I cannot be so happye, & if thou
Beare but the least affectyon to my cause,
Thy fortunes like thy trenchers wilbe chaungd
To a sordyd foulenes that will loathe thy nature.

Did.  For that no matter, I darre fortunes worst
In ryghte of vertue; & if you’le be pleased
Thys screane may be removed that keepes away
All comfortable heate from everye man
Which he stands neare, Ile tell you thyngs that shall
Confyrme you I am yours.

Orl.  He shall not goe,
Nor can I hope successe in any thynge
(More then my sworde), & muche lesse be confyrmed.

Oli.  Pray, sir, withdrawe.

Rei.  Althoughe I thynke thys fellowe meanes no good
We may dyscover & prevent hys ill: 
Pray leave us, sir.

Bus.  I will; but yet beware That fellowe. [Exit La Busse.

Did.  I fyrst desyre
To be beleived my love & utmost servyce
Are vowed unto your greatnes, to which beleife
The hazard of my life throughe all the daungers
That ever fryghted weake mortallytie,
Shalbe an instygation.  Fyrst, Sir, knowe
The empresse is departed.

Orl.  Whyther! to hunt worsse fortunes then I suffer?

Did.  Sir, she is deade, a fever shooke her bloode
After her chyld bedd sycknes, & of it
She dyed last mornynge.

Rei.  Wonderful!! what newse of her younge sonne?

Did.  It lyves & is a pryncelye littill one, Lewis the gentyll calld, a hopefull infante.

Oli.  But smale hope of the emperours righte to it.

Orl.  Howe taks hys majestye the empresse deathe?

Did.  Straunglye, beyond all presydents of greife. 
Being dead it seemes he loves her ten tymes more
Then ere he loved her liveinge (yet that love
Outwentt all dottage in th’extreamytie): 
He will not give her buryall, but in’s armes
Carryes her up & downe, courts, kysses, toys,
Mournes when she maks no answere; often faynes
To understande her sylence; sweares that deathe
Cannot, nay darre not, hurte suche excellence.

Orl.  Why, thys is absolute madnes!  Where’s byshopp Turpin?  His reverence shoulde persuade hym.

Did.  So he hathe, But tys in vayne:  he heares naught but his passyon.

Orl.  Why, styll thou heapest uppon me newe misfortunes.

Did.  But will delyver comforte.  For some prooffe Of myne integrytie, knowe I was hyerd By Ganelon to poyson you.

Rei.  Whatts thys?

Did.  To which performance I so soothd hys hopes That he beleives tys doone.