Bus. Shunne not hys syghte that dothe adore your syghte.
How fares the Empresse? Like to a bloweinge rose
Nypt with a colde frost, will she styll keepe in
Cyrckled with ice?
Ber. I knowe not nor I care not.
Bus. But you can guesse.—Or in the frosts Dyspighte Will she blowe out?
Ber. Sir, y'are unmannerlie To stay and question me: I must be gone.
Bus. Take my harte with you.
Ber. He whose harte and tonge Runne one selfe course shall seldome fynde the way To a preferrment.
Bus. Sfoote, doe you thynke your love Such a preferrment? nay then, fare you well.
Ber. Vyllanous man! [Ex. Bertha.
Bus. Well, now unto my father whom I knowe
Hates me but for my goodnes; and althoughe
I cannot blame the Empresse, yet on hym
Ile vent myne honest spleene, and he shall knowe
Vertue at porest hath yet one advocate,
Though muche too meane to helpe her.—See, a comes.
Enter Ganelon.