_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