goe,
Nor can I hope successe in any thynge
(More then my sworde), & muche lesse be confyrmed.

_Oli_. Pray, sir, withdrawe.

_Rei_. Althoughe I thynke thys fellowe meanes no good
We may dyscover & prevent hys ill:
Pray leave us, sir.

_Bus_. I will; but yet beware
That fellowe. [_Exit La Busse_.

_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.

_Orl_. Why, styll thou heapest uppon me newe misfortunes.

_Did_. But will delyver comforte. For some prooffe
Of myne integrytie, knowe I was hyerd
By _Ganelon_ to poyson you.

_Rei_. Whatts thys?

_Did_. To which performance I so soothd hys hopes
That he beleives tys doone.

_Orl_. And so it had,
But that my Fortune knewe my deathe woulde be
Toe greate a blessinge for me & remove
The object of her envye past her spleene.
What wretchednes is thys! haveinge indeede
All the worlds mysseryes that have a name,
A new one out of pyttie must be founde
To adde to infynitts. My heavy cursse,
But that't would be a blessynge, shoulde rewarde thee;
And for thy disobedyence to thy lorde
Ile torture thee, for I will wish thee well.

_Did_. Did ever mans preservatyon plauge [sic] hym thus?
Wonder confounds me.

_Rei_. My most worthye cossen