Char. Nephewe, y'are discontented and I woulde Give all rights to your honor, which did cause Me latelye thus to send for you.
Orl. Tys true,
You sent unto me, sir, and I obayd
And came: but then, Sir, what became of me?
You sente me presentlye away for Spayne.
Nay, never frowne, I doe remember thys
As well methynks as if it hapned nowe.
Char. Your memoryes toe blame; you doe mistake.
Orl. O that I could mistake or never thynke
Uppon thys daylie terror to my sence.
Sir, tys a thyng I labour to mystake
But cannot, for my starrs will have it thus.
Char. You wronge your fortunes and convert theire good Into a stronge disease.
Orl. So pray you tourne me then into an hospytall,
I have a straunge disease. But, gratyous Sir,
Littill thought I, when I departed hence
And conquerd you all Spayne, to tourne diseasd.
Char. Be patyent, and Ile undertake the cuer.
Orl. Oh I should shame your physsycke, though indeede
Tys the kyngs evyll I am trobled with,
But such a rare kyngs evyll that I feare
My chyldrens chyldren wilbe taynted with't.
Rei.—A touches hym most bouldlye.
Oli.—Even to the quycke of hys last maryadge.