_Gan_. Pyttie of follye! wherefore shoulde thys boy,
Thys thynge of too nyce contyence, nay my sonne,
Troble hym selfe with any acte of myne
As if they helde proportion with hys state,
Wytt or condytion? Such thyngs are swayd by chaunce:
And naughts more arrogant than Ignorance.--
But here comes he that hathe brayne to plott
And spyrrytt to acte.

_Enter Didier_.

Howe is it _Didier_?

_Did_. As you comanded, Sir.

_Gan_. Hast doone it then?

_Did_. And without all suspytion?

_Gan_. Halfe my soule,
Let me imbrace thee. All my cares and feares
Thou hast dyspeyrct for ever; from hys deathe
My future honors take a glorious byrthe.

_Enter La Fue_.

_Fue_. Hees never from hym; nay I must begone;
Past servyce is forgott. Doe you heare, my lorde?
Beggars must be no chusers. I am one,
The proverb proves it, an oulde serving man: