When everye byrd dothe coople, onlye I
Pore forlorne turtle, haveinge lost my mate,
Must dye on a bare braunche. Wytt defend me!
Youthe & my pleasures will not suffer it.
I've here contryved a letter to my frende
In myne ill brothers name. It may worke
Somethynge to gayne my wishes; at the worst
It cannot make me more then I am accurst.
And heres my messenger.--

_Enter La Fue_.

Howe nowe Mounseir _Fue_?
Whyther gost thou in suche a sweatinge passyon?

_Fue_. O, Madam, sweatynge is goode for the itche, and the rascall
_Didier_ haveing playd the roague with my lord ist possyble but I
should itche to be about hys eares when I see the knaves countenance?
Therefore to avoyde troble I affect sweatinge.

_Gab_. Why, thou dost not see hym nor art thou licklye.

_Fue_. O by all meanes I cannot mysse the devyll. Why, I am goeing to
the courte, Madam, & the knave wilbe in everye corner, _Didier_ I meane,
by all meanes; so that if I doe not sweate I shall scratche the skynne
from myne elbowes.

_Gab_. Then to further your sweatinge take paynes with thys letter; tell
noble _Richard_, the sonne of _Aimon_, your master sente it, but doe not
tell your master I imployd you. Take this rewarde and deale wiselye.