Orl. No, of my trothe, I know thee much too honest; but how fares The Empresse now, my dear exequetresse?
Bus. Sir, as a woman in her case may doe; Shee's broughte [to] bedd.
Rei. What, has she a chylde, then?
Bus. I, my Lord.
Orl. A Sonne!
Bus. Mys-fortune hath 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? Why, if she had been spayd
And all mankynd made Euenucks, yet in spyghte
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 objecte.
Bus. Sir, be at peace; Much may be found by observatyon.