_Oli_. I, but in sober sadness whatts done there?

_Bus_. Faythe, very littill, Sir, in sober sadnes,
For there disorder hurryes perfect thyngs
To mere confussyon: nothing there hath forme
But that which spoyles all forme, & to be shorte
Vice only thrives and merryt starves in courte.

_Rei_. What of the maryadge of your noble aunte
Our fayre eied royall empresse?

_Bus_. Trothe, I wonderd, Sir,
You spoke of that no sooner, yet I hope
None here are jealyous that I brought one sparke
To kyndell that ill flame.

_Orl_. No, of my trothe,
I know thee much too honest; but how fares
The Empresse now, my dear exequetresse?

_Bus_. Sir, as a woman in her case may doe;
Shee's broughte [to] bedd.

_Rei_. What, has she a chylde, then?

_Bus_. I, my Lord.

_Orl_. A Sonne!

_Bus_. Mys-fortune hath inspyrd you, Sir; tys true.