_Gan_. Good mother, syster, deare spyrrytts, doe not haunte me:
I will not from eternytie beleive
That _Richard_ is unfaythfull.

_Eld_. No, runne on,
Swallowe thy shames like full bytts tyll they choake you
And make the people prophesye that you
Shalbe undoone by your false _Ganimede_.

_Gan_. A poxe uppon the people! Would you have
Me to depend uppon theire orackles?

_Gab_. Depend on your owne goodnes; doe not trust
A traytor in your bossome. _Richard_, they say
Hathe begd your honor and your offyces:
Hes counte of _Poyteers_, marquysse of _Saluca_.

_Eld_. Cunstable & master of the ordnance.

_Gan_. It cannot be nor will I credyt it.

_Eld_. Then perishe in your dullnes. Nay, sir, more;
It was hys earnest suyt to the emperoure
To be dyvorst your presence: I can prove it.

_Gab_. And I that he by secret charmes hathe sought
To make spoyle of myne honor, but in vayne
Doe I complayne where theres no profyttinge.

_Fue_. In the way of ordynarye curtesye I doe salute you, &