Gan. Ile tell you presentlye.
Eld. What a madd tyrant is mans stronge beleife!
Makinge hym hunte hys proper myschiefe fourthe,
Takinge delight in desperatyon.
O theres no foe to our credulytie.
Gan. O mother, yes; Aimons youngest sonne Richards a slave above credulytie. Why, alls confyrmd here underneathe hys hande; A dothe not blussh to write to me a hathe All honors that I challendge; good sweet, looke, [Eldegrad reads. Read & recorde a vyllayne. What speaks youres?
Gab. No lesse than I imagynd, fearfull seidge Agaynst my name & honor. [Ganelon reads.
Eld.—So, it taks;
Thys polytycke trycke, wenche, hathe set up the walle
Of stronge partytyon twixt theym. Hence theire loves
Shall never meete agayne.
Gan. O monstrous vyllayne, wouldst thou make her whore?
I tell you, shallowe braynd unfaythfull hynde,
Th'adst better have kyst Juno in a cloude
And beene the dadd to Centaurs.
Eld. Save your wrathe: Tys fytt that nowe your wisdome governe you.
Gan. Mother, it shall; I am not yet past all Recoverye.
Enter La Busse.
Nowe, sir, what newes at courte?