Buf. Trothe I wonderd, Sir,
You spooke 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 knowe thee much too honest; but how fares
The Empresse now, my dear exequetresse?
Buf. Sir, as a woman in her casse may doe;
Shee's broughte [to] bedd.
Rei. What, has she a chylde then?
Buf. I, my Lord.
Orl. A Sonne?
Buf. Mys-fortune hathe 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? not a whytt. Why, if she had beene spayd
And all mankynd made Euenucks, yet in spyght
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 obiecte.