Without the catchinge of a rotten boarde
To keepe bare life and mysserye together
To fyght eche other.

_Bus_. Furyes fryght thy soule!
Is a good mans ill fate thy nourishment?
Noble _Orlando_, what omynous fatell starre
Ruld thy nativitie that fire must be
Strooke out of Ice to ruyne all thy hopes:
This marriage is their grave.

_Did_. Sir, I may rayse
A broken state by service.

_Bus_. Yes, of the devyll
To whom thou art a factor. Slave, 'tis thou
That hast undoone my father and increast
His evyll inclinatyons. I have seene
Your conference with witches, night-spell knaves,
Connivynge mountebanks and the damned frye
Of cheating mathematicks. And is this
The issue of your closse contryvances[84]?
If in thys p[ro]myst throng of future ill
There may be found a way to anye good
Of brave _Orlando_ the great palladyne,
My constant industry shall tyer the day
And outwatche night but I will fynde it for hym;
And yf to doe hym good--

_Enter La Fue_.