Enter Ganelon.

Gan.  Y’are well mett.

Did.  I thanke you.

Gan.  Th’art a vyllayne.

Did.  It may be so; your lordshypp can defyne me If you would shewe your readinge or your practyse.

Gan. Orlando is retournd.

Did.  Tys well.

Gan.  It is; But it had beene better for your perjurd roaugshipp Your harte had gordgd a hauke.

Did.  Wa, ha ho, man! 
Your buzarde is a kynde of byrde of prey,
Your lordship knowes too, that will feede on all
Unable to outflye or to resist,
But suche pursued her basenes and her sloathe
At once apeare.  You understand me, sir?

Gan.  Nowe a leane castrell[89] ceyze thee?  Arte thou flesht?  Must naught encounter you but byrds of rapyne?

Did.  Good, good, you stretche a foule comparysson The best that I have hearde.  But be assurd I am no scarabb for a castrells breakfast.

Gan.  Why, you are growne a desperatt darringe rouge, A roaugue of noyse and clamor, are you not?

Did.  And in dyspyghte of all your fearfull bells
Of greatnes and aucthorytie, will tourne heade,
Fly in thye bossome, and so stynge thee then
That thou shalt curse thy beinge.
                                    [Exit Didier.

Gan.  Thys is well,
Exceedinge well:  upbrayded by my slave
Armed by my trust agaynst me!  I coulde nowe
Wishe a stronge packthread had stytchd up my lips
When I made thys roague inmate of my breast. 
My seryous counsaylls and’s owne servyces
He sells like goods at outcryes—­“Who gives most?”
Oh what dull devyll manadgd my weake braynes
When first I trusted hym; Harte, I have made
My counsaylls my foes weapons, wherewith he
May wound me deeplye.  Suer he has reveald
My purposse and reward to poyson hym: 
So I bestryde a myne which to my ruyne
Wants but a sparke,—­and farewell, Ganelon! 
Nowe the poxe take my harte for trustynge hym! 
What a brave noble creature were a man ... ... ... ... ... see and so prevent ... ... ... ... ... nay of his slave.

    Enter Richard.

Ric.  Health attend you!

Gan.  O my dearest sweete,
Thy presence makes thee master of thy wish;
For in it rests my health and happynes. 
Howe does my best friend? faythe, you look most sadd,
And we have bothe full cause.  My syster’s deathe
Hath, like the moone in opposytion,
Put out the eie of heaven.  But doth the emperour
Styll keep her in hys armes.

Ric.  Yes, styll and styll;
Nay with such vyolence love seemes to growe
And flourishe most in deathe. Mesantius wrathe,
That tyed dead to the livinge, seemes in hym
The joy of all man’s wishes.  Soothe he is
Anything now but famous Charlymayne.