_Did_. Baw, waw, waw! Sir, troble not your selfe
With any doute oth' secrecye was usd
In actinge your comand. And, Sir, because
I will not have it rest within my power
At anye tyme to wronge or to traduce
Your honour by a probable suspytion,
Receyve thys letter which atts buryall
I founde in's pockett. Sir, it might concerne you,
[_Give the letter & Ganelon reads_.
And deeplye toe, if it should be reveald.
--It calls up all hys bloode into hys face
And muche dystempers hym.

_Gan_. Deathe! I am lost in treason: my fordgd hand
Hathe whored my liveinge syster & displays
All my basse plotts agaynst the emperoure.
By heaven tys false, fordgd, false as heresye!

_Did_. How! a fordgd hand?

_Gan_. Yes, _Didier_. When was it dated, trow?
Torment! synce my restraynt of libertie!
Good gentyll patyence manadge me a whyle,
Let me collect. Certaynlye _Rychards_ harte
Coulde not but doubte thys charrackter, & in
The strengthe of doute he came to me last nyghte
To be resolvd; or ells why should he beare
Suche daunger in hys pockett? Admyttinge thys,
What followes then? Why, if that were the ende