_Bus_. Suche as can come from sorrowe: he is all
Wretchednes and mysfortune, and in me
Speaks to your sacred goodnes to be pleasd
Voutsafe to call your fayre dove to your fyst
(Mercye I meane) that may abate the stroake
Of your sharpe eagle justyce, and you will
Be wrytt the best of prynces.

_Char_. Come, no more:
Your fathers sentence is irrevocable.

_Bus_. Yet, gratyous Sir, sende hym hys honors backe
And for those fewe pore howers he hathe to breathe
Let hym injoy those deare companyons.

_Char_. You are the good sonne of an evyll man
And I comend your vertue, but thys suyte
Is past all restytution: to thys prynce
I've given all your father governed.

_Rich_. Which, royall sir?

_Char_. Cossen, no more; I know your modesty.
... ... ... your languadge; hees my foe
That next solycytts me for _Ganelon_.

_Bus_. O doe not make me, sir, be impyous,
For shoulde your breathe crushe me to attomyes,
Yet whylst my memorye can call hym father
I must invocke you for hym.