_Gan_. Why, you are growne a desperatt darringe rouge,
A roaugue of noyse and clamor, are you not?

_Did_. And in dyspyghte of all your fearfull bells
Of greatnes and aucthorytie, will tourne heade,
Fly in thye bossome, and so stynge thee then
That thou shalt curse thy beinge.
[_Exit Didier_.

_Gan_. Thys is well,
Exceedinge well: upbrayded by my slave
Armed by my trust agaynst me! I coulde nowe
Wishe a stronge packthread had stytchd up my lips
When I made thys roague inmate of my breast.
My seryous counsaylls and's owne servyces
He sells like goods at outcryes--"Who gives most?"
Oh what dull devyll manadgd my weake braynes
When first I trusted hym; Harte, I have made
My counsaylls my foes weapons, wherewith he
May wound me deeplye. Suer he has reveald
My purposse and reward to poyson hym:
So I bestryde a myne which to my ruyne
Wants but a sparke,--and farewell, _Ganelon_!
Nowe the poxe take my harte for trustynge hym!
What a brave noble creature were a man
... ... ... ... ... see and so prevent
... ... ... ... ... nay of his slave.

_Enter Richard_.