Which runns styll in a blood, nay more extreame,
For frends and kyndred bothe must feele my cursse:
But what good man can well escape a cursse
When Emperours, that should be absolute,
Will take advyse from everye shyftinge sycophant?

_Gan_. Mallyce and factyon could have sayd no more.

_Orl_. Are you then guyltie of advyse, my lorde?

_Gan_. Sir, if the kynge accuse me I submytt.

_Char_. I must accuse you bothe, but punnyshe one,
You, _Ganelon_, I meane: there dothe belonge
Unto your fault muche more then banishment.
I heare discharge you of all offyces,
Honors and tyttells or whatere exceeds
The slender name of a pore gentyllman.
Besyds I fyne you out of your estate
At fortye thousand crownes, and never hence
To see the courte, but live thence banyshed.
Nephewe, this may suffyce you; if't be light
Ile lay more burthens on hym.--Come, best frende.

_Orl_. Sir, I desyer no mans miserye.

[_Ex. Cha., Turp_.

_Gan_. Then welcome once agayne my libertie!
Nowe, my sweete frend, may I discourse with thee