_Fue_. True, for I'll stande too't an oulde man is able to see more, doe
more, & comand more then any young man in Chrystendome.

_Char_. Prove it, my sweete; thou arte myne advocate.

_Fue_. Why, a sees more, through spectackles which make everye thynge
apeare bygger than it is; does more, for a never lights from hys horse
but hees readye to pull the sadle after hym; and for comandment he may
call twentye tymes to hys servant ere he have hys will once performed.

_Rich_.--Sfoote, the knave dothe abuse hys hyghnes groslye.

_Tur_.--Tut, not at all when't cannot be dyserned.

_Char_. Why, I doe nowe doate on thyne excellence.
Thys witts unparaleld.

_Did_.--True, except a man searche the Idyotts hospytall.

_Char_. Thou never shalt goe from me.

_Fue_. O yes, by all meanes. Shall my master say I ranne away like a
rascall? No, you shall give me leave to take my leave. That ceremonye
performd, I'm yours tyll doomes day.

_Char_. I cannot live without thee.

_Fue_. Ile not stay a day at furthest.

_Char_. I darre denye thee nothynge. Kysse & goe:
Thynke how I languyshe for thee.

_Fue_. And I will condole in recyprocall kyndnes.

_Char_. Bishopp, attend my dearest.

_Tur_. Greate Sir, I was toe impudent even nowe
To trooble you with my token; good Sir, please
To give it me agayne: a meaner man
Shall serve my humble messadge.

_Fue_. Bishopp, I doe voutsafe it; theres thy ringe.
[_Gives him the ringe_.

_Tur_.--And you agayne a basse most scurvye thynge.

[_Exe. Turp., Fue_.

_Enter La Busse_.

_Char_. Howe nowe, _La Busse_? What newse from _Ganelon_?

_Bus_. Suche as can come from sorrowe: he is all
Wretchednes and mysfortune, and in me
Speaks to your sacred goodnes to be pleasd
Voutsafe to call your fayre dove to your fyst
(Mercye I meane) that may abate the stroake
Of your sharpe eagle justyce, and you will
Be wrytt the best of prynces.

_Char_. Come, no more:
Your fathers sentence is irrevocable.

_Bus_. Yet, gratyous Sir, sende hym hys honors backe
And for those fewe pore howers he hathe to breathe
Let hym injoy those deare companyons.

_Char_. You are the good sonne of an evyll man
And I comend your vertue, but thys suyte
Is past all restytution: to thys prynce
I've given all your father governed.

_Rich_. Which, royall sir?

_Char_. Cossen, no more; I know your modesty.
... ... ... your languadge; hees my foe
T