_Ber_. Why syghes thou, frende?

_Gab_. Not at your joys but myne afflyctyons.
Your in a good way, _Bertha_, ryde spurrd on,
May come unto your journey: I must tyre,
Theres not a swytche or prycke to quycken me.

_Ber_. Yes, when younge _Rychard_ hunts your purlue ground.
Come, I doe know you will not chaunge your ryder.

_Gab_. Not if a would fall to hys exercyse.

_Ber_. Th'art styll thy selfe (all madnes).--But no more;
Here comes your brother.

_Enter Ganelon, La Busse_.

_Eud_. Healthe to my noble lorde!

_Gan_. You wishe me my worst enemye, yet, Sir,
Tys wellcome since you wishe it. O I am
At thys tyme nothynge but extreame disgrace.

_Eud_. Shake you for that? Why, noble lorde, you knowe
Disgrace is ever like the greate assay
Which turnes imperfytt mettalls into fume
And shewes pure gould to have an absolute valewe
Because it styll remayns unchaungable
Disgrace can never scarre a good mans sence,