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.