_Eld_. What a madd tyrant is mans stronge beleife!
Makinge hym hunte hys proper myschiefe fourthe,
Takinge delight in desperatyon.
O theres no foe to our credulytie.

_Gan_. O mother, yes; _Aimons_ youngest sonne
_Richards_ a slave above credulytie.
Why, alls confyrmd here underneathe hys hande;
A dothe not blussh to write to me a hathe
All honors that I challendge; good sweet, looke,
[_Eldegrad reads_.
Read & recorde a vyllayne. What speaks youres?

_Gab_. No lesse than I imagynd, fearfull seidge
Agaynst my name & honor.
[_Ganelon reads_.

_Eld_.--So, it taks;
Thys polytycke trycke, wenche, hathe set up the walle
Of stronge partytyon twixt theym. Hence theire loves
Shall never meete agayne.

_Gan_. O monstrous vyllayne, wouldst thou make her whore?
I tell you, shallowe braynd unfaythfull hynde,
Th'adst better have kyst _Juno_ in a cloude
And beene the dadd to Centaurs.

_Eld_. Save your wrathe:
Tys fytt that nowe your wisdome governe you.