[_Ganelon_ stabs _Richard_, his dearest friend, suspecting him of treachery.]
_Rich_. O you've slayne me! tell me, cruell sir, Why you have doone thys, that myne innocent soule May teache repentance to you-- _dies_.
_Gan_. Speake it out,-- What, not a worde? dumbe with a littill blowe? You are growne statlye, are you? tys even so: You have the trycke of mightie men in courte To speake at leasure and pretend imployment. Well, take your tyme; tys not materyall Whether you speake the resydue behynde Now or at doomes day. If thy common sence Be not yet parted from thee, understand I doe not misse thee dyinge because once I loved thee dearlye; and collect by that There is no Devyll in me nor in hell That could have flesht me to this violent deathe Hadst thou beene false to all the world but me.
The concentrated bitterness of those lines is surpassed by nothing in the _Revenger's Tragedy_. Indeed, I am inclined to believe that the whole play, which is very unskilfully constructed, is by Tourneur, or perhaps by the author[281] of the _Second Maiden's Tragedy_. All the figures are shrouded in a blank starless gloom; to read the play is to watch the riot of devils. Here is an extract from the scene where _Orlando_, returning from the wars, hears that _Charlemagne_, his uncle, has married _Ganelon's_ niece, and that his own hopes of succession have been ruined by the birth of a son:--
_Orl[ando.]_ I am the verye foote-ball of the starres, Th'anottomye of fortune whom she dyssects With all the poysons & sharpe corrosyves Stylld in the lymbecke of damde pollycie. My starres, my starres! O that my breath could plucke theym from theire spheares So with theire ruyns to conclude my feares.
_Rei[naldo.]_ Smoother your passions, Sir: here comes his sonne-- A propertie oth court, that least his owne Ill manners should be noted thyeks it fytt In pollycie to scoffe at other mens. He will taxe all degrees & thynke that that Keepes hym secure from all taxation.
_Orl_. Y'are deceyvd; it is a noble gentyllman And hated of hys father for hys vertues.
_Buf_. Healthe and all blessinge wherewith heauen and earthe May comforte man, wayte on your excellence!
_Orl_. Although I know no mans good wyshe or prayrs Can ere be heard to my desyred good, I am not so voyde of humanytie But I will thancke your loue.