  The chime goes, in which time Fabel is oft seen to stare about him, and hold up his hands. Fab. What means the tolling of this fatal chime? O, what a trembling horror strikes my heart! My stiffen'd hair stands upright on my head, As do the bristles of a porcupine. Enter Coreb, a spirit. Fab. Ha, ha! why dost thou wake me? Coreb, is it thou? Cor. Tis I. Fab. I know thee well; I hear the watchful dogs With hollow howling tell of thy approach: The lights burn dim, affrighted with thy presence; And this distemper'd and tempestuous night Tells me the air is troubled with some devil. Cor. Come, art thou ready? Fab. Whither, or to what? Cor. Why, scholar, this the hour my date expires: I must depart, and come to claim my due. Fab. Ha! what is thy due? Cor. Fabel, thyself. Fab. O, let not darkness hear thee speak that word, Lest that with force it hurry hence amain, And leave the world to look upon my woe: Yet overwhelm me with this globe of earth, And let a little sparrow with her bill Take but so much as she can bear away, That, every day thus losing of my load, I may again in time yet hope to rise. Cor. Didst thou not write thy name with thine own blood? And drew'st the formal deed 'twixt thee and me? And is it not recorded now in hell? Fab. Why com'st thou in this stern and horrid shape: Not in familiar sort, as thou wast wont? Cor. Because the date of thy command is out, And I am master of thy skill and thee. Fab. Coreb, thou angry and impatient spirit, I have earnest business for a private friend: Reserve me, spirit, until some farther time. Cor. I will not for the mines of all the earth. Fab. Then let me rise, and ere I leave the world, Despatch And in meantime repose thee in that chair. Cor. Fabel, I will. [Sits down in the necromantic chair. Fab. O, that this soul, that cost so dear a price As the dear precious blood of her Redeemer, Inspir'd with knowledge, should by that alone, Which makes a man so mean unto the powers, Ev'n lead him down into the depth of hell; When men in their own pride strive to know more Than man should know! For this alone God cast the angels down. The infinity of arts is like a sea, Into which when man will take in hand to sail Farther than reason (which should be his pilot) Hath skill to guide him—losing once his compass, He falleth to such deep and dangerous whirlpools, As he doth lose the very sight of heaven: The more he strives to come to quiet harbour, The farther still he finds himself from land. Man, striving still to find the depth of evil— Seeking to be a god, becomes a devil. Cor. Come, Fabel, hast thou done? Fab. Yes, yes, come hither. Cor. Fabel, I cannot. Fab. Cannot! what ails your hollowness? Cor. Good Fabel, help me. Fab. Alas! where lies your grief?—Some aqua vitÆ! The devil's very sick, I fear he'll die; For he looks very ill. Cor. Dar'st thou deride the minister of darkness? In Lucifer's great name, Coreb conjures thee To set him free. Fab. I will not for the mines of all the earth, Unless thou give me liberty to see Seven years more, before thou seize on me. Cor. Fabel, I give it thee. Fab. Swear, damned fiend. Cor. Unbind me, and by hell I will not touch thee, Till seven years from this hour be full expir'd. Fab. Enough, come out. Cor. A vengeance take thy art! Live and convert all piety to evil: Never did man thus overreach the devil. No time on earth, like Phaetonic flames, Can have perpetual being. I'll return To my infernal mansion: but be sure, Thy seven years done, no trick shall make me tarry; But, Coreb, thou to hell shalt Fabel carry. Fab. Then thus between us two this variance ends; Thou to thy fellow-fiends, I to my friends. [Exeunt. Enter Sir Arthur Clare, Dorcas his lady, Millicent his daughter, young Harry Clare; the men booted, the gentlewomen in cloaks and safeguards; Host. Welcome, good knight, to the George at Waltham: my freehold, my tenements, goods and chattels. Madam, here's a room is Clare. God-a-mercy, my good host Blague! Thou hast a good seat here. Host. 'Tis correspondent or so: there's not a Tartarian H. Clare. Prythee, good sinful innkeeper, will that corruption, thine ostler, to look well to my gelding. Ha! a pox of these rushes. Host. You, St Denis, your gelding shall walk without doors, and cool his feet for his master's sake. By the body of Saint George, I have an excellent intellect to go steal some venison: now, when wast thou in the forest? H. Clare. Away, you stale mess of white broth! Come hither, sister, let me help you. Clare. Mine host, is not Sir Richard Mounchensey come yet, according to our appointment, when we last dined here? Host. The knight's not yet apparent. Marry, here's a forerunner that summons a parley, and, faith, he'll be here top and top-gallant presently. Clare. 'Tis well; good mine host, go down and see breakfast be provided. Host. Knight, thy breath hath the force of a woman, it takes me down; I am for the baser element of the kitchen: I retire like a valiant soldier, face point-blank to the foeman, or, like a courtier, that must not show his prince his posteriors: vanish to know my canvasadoes and my interrogatories, for I serve the good Duke of Norfolk. [Exit. Clare. How doth my lady? are you not weary, madam? Come hither, I must talk in private with you; My daughter Millicent must not overhear. [Speaking low. Mil. Ay, whispering? pray God it tend to my good! Strange fear assails my heart, usurps my blood. [Aside. Clare. You know our meeting with the knight Mounchensey Is to assure our daughter to his heir. Dor. 'Tis without question. [Speaking low. Clare. Two tedious winters have pass'd o'er, since first These couple lov'd each other, and in passion Glued first their naked hands with youthful moisture— Just so long, on my knowledge. Dor. And what of this? Clare. This morning should my daughter lose her name, And to Mounchensey's house convey our arms, Quartered within his 'scutcheon: the affiance made 'Twixt him and her this morning should be seal'd. Dor. I know it should. Clare. But there are crosses, Another at the Abbey, and a third At Cheston; Any of these without a pater-noster. Crosses of love still thwart this marriage, Whilst that we two (like spirits) walk in night About those stony and hard-hearted plots. Mil. O God! what means my father? [Aside. Clare. For look you, wife, the riotous old knight Hath overrun his annual revenue, In keeping jolly Christmas all the year: The nostrils of his chimneys are still stuff'd With smoke, more chargeable than cane-tobacco; His hawks devour his fattest hogs, His leanest cur, eats his hounds' carrion. Besides, I heard of late his younger brother, A Turkey merchant, hath sore By means of some great losses on the sea; That (you conceive me), before God, all's naught, His seat is weak: thus, each thing rightly scann'd, You'll see a flight, wife, shortly of his land. Mil. Treason to my heart's truest sovereign: How soon is love smothered in foggy gain! [Aside. Dor. But how shall we prevent this dangerous match? Clare. I have a plot, a trick; and this it is. Under this colour I'll break off the match— I'll tell the knight, that now my mind is chang'd For marrying of my daughter; for I intend To send her unto Cheston nunnery. Mil. O me accurs'd! [Aside. Clare. There to become a most religious nun. Mil. I'll first be buried quick. [Aside. Clare. To spend her beauty in most private prayers. Mil. I'll sooner be a sinner in forsaking Mother and father. [Aside. Clare. How dost like my plot? Dor. Exceeding well: but is it your intent She shall continue there? Clare. Continue there? ha, ha! that were a jest: You know a virgin may continue there A twelvemonth and a day on trial. There shall my daughter sojourn some three months, And in meantime I'll compass a fair match 'Twixt youthful Jerningham, the lusty heir Of Sir Ralph Jerningham, dwelling in the forest. I think they'll both come hither with Mounchensey. Dor. Your care argues the love your bear our child; I will subscribe to anything you'll have me. [Exeunt Sir Arthur and Dorcas. Mil. You will subscribe to it?—good, good, Love hath two chairs of state, heaven and hell. My dear Mounchensey, thou my death shalt rue, Ere to thy heart Millicent prove untrue. [Exit. Enter Blague. Host. Ostlers, you knaves and commanders, take the horses of the knights and competitors: your honourable hulks have put into harbour, they'll take in fresh water here, and I have provided clean chamber-pots. Via! Enter Sir Richard Mounchensey, Sir Ralph Jerningham, young Frank Jerningham, Raymond Mounchensey, Peter Fabel, and Bilbo. Host. The destinies be most neat chamberlains to these swaggering puritans, knights of the subsidy. Sir Rich. God-a-mercy, good mine host. Sir Ralph. Thanks, good host Blague. Host. Room for my case of pistols, that have Greek and Latin bullets in them: let me cling to your flanks, my nimble giberalters, and blow wind in your calves to make them swell bigger. Ha! I'll caper in mine own fee-simple. Away with punctilios and orthography! I serve the good Duke of Norfolk. Bil. Tityre, tu patulÆ recubans sub tegmine fagi. Host. Thou shalt have it without any more discontinuance, release, or attournment. What! we know our terms of hunting and the sea-card. Bil. And do you serve the good Duke of Norfolk still? Host. Still and still, and still, my soldier of Saint Quintin's. Come follow me. I have Charles's-wain Bil. You have fine scholar-like terms: your Cooper's Dictionary Host. And still, and still, and still, my boy, I'll serve the good Duke of Norfolk. Enter Sir Arthur Clare, Harry Clare, and Millicent. Sir Ralph. Good Sir Arthur Clare! Clare. What gentleman is that? I know him not. Sir Rich. 'Tis Master Fabel, sir, a Cambridge scholar, My son's dear friend. Clare. Sir, I entreat you know me. Fab. Command me, sir, I am affected to you For your Mounchensey's sake. Clare. Alas! for him, I not respect whether he sink or swim! [Aside. A word in private, Sir Ralph Jerningham. Ray. Methinks your father looketh strangely on me: Say, love, why are you sad? Mil. I am not, sweet; Passion is strong, when woe with woe doth meet. Clare. Shall's in to breakfast? After, we'll conclude The cause of this our coming: in and feed, And let that usher a more serious deed. [Exit. Mil. Whilst you desire his grief, my heart shall bleed. [Exit. Y. Clare. Raymond Mounchensey, come, be frolic, friend; This is the day thou hast expected long. Ray. Pray God, dear Harry Clare, it prove so happy! Y. Clare. There's nought can alter it; be merry, lad. Fab. There's nought shall alter it; be lively, Raymond: Stand any opposition 'gainst thy hope, Art shall confront it with her largest scope. [Exeunt, save Fabel. Peter Fabel solus. Fab. Good old Mounchensey, is thy hap so ill, That for thy bounty and thy royal parts Thy kind alliance should be held in scorn, And after all these promises, my Refuse to give his daughter to thy son, Only because thy revenues cannot reach To make her dowage of so rich a jointure As can the heir of wealthy Jerningham? To strike a match betwixt her and the other; And the old grey-beards now are close together, Plotting it in the garden. Is't even so? Raymond Mounchensey, boy, have thou and I Thus long at Cambridge read the liberal arts, The metaphysics, magic, and those parts Of the most secret deep philosophy? Have I so many melancholy nights Watch'd on the top of Peter-house highest tower, And come we back unto our native home, For want of skill to lose the wench thou lov'st? I'll first hang Enfield As never rose from any dampish fen: I'll make the brined sea to rise at Ware, And drown the marshes unto Stratford Bridge: I'll drive the deer from Waltham in their walks, And scatter them (like sheep) in every field. We may perhaps be cross'd; but, if we be, He shall cross the devil, that but crosses me. Enter Raymond and Young Jerningham. But here comes Raymond, disconsolate and sad; And here's the gallant that must have the wench. Jer. I prythee, Raymond, leave these solemn dumps: Revive thy spirits. Thou, that before hast been More watchful than the day-proclaiming cock: As sportive as a kid, as frank and merry As mirth herself! If aught in me may thy content procure, It is thine own, thou mayst thyself assure. Ray. Ha! Jerningham, if any but thyself Had spoke that word, it would have come as cold As the bleak northern winds upon the face Upon my blood; yet being from thee, Had but that hollow sound come from the lips Of any living man, it might have won The credit of mine ear; from thee it cannot. Jer. If I understand thee, I am a villain: What! dost thou speak in parables to thy friend? Enter Young Clare. Come, boy, and make me this same groaning love, Troubled with stitches and the cough o' th' lungs, That wept his eyes out, when he was a child, And ever since hath shot at hoodman-blind: Make her leap, caper, jerk, and laugh, and sing, And play me horse tricks. Make Cupid wanton as his mother's dove; But in this sort, boy, I would have thee love. Fab. Why, how now, madcap? what, my lusty Frank, So near a wife, and will not tell your friend? But you will to this gear in hugger-mugger: Art thou turn'd miser, rascal, in thy loves? Jer. Who, I? s'blood, what should all you see in me, that I should look like a married man, ha? Y. Clare. What, thou married? let me look upon thee; rogue, who has given this out of thee? how cam'st thou into this ill-name? what company hast thou been in, rascal? Fab. You are the man, sir, must have Millicent, The match is making in the garden now; Her jointure is agreed on, and the old men, Your fathers, mean to launch their busy bags; But in the meantime to thrust Mounchensey off. For colour of this new-intended match, Fair Millicent to Cheston must be sent, To take the approbation for a nun. Ne'er look upon me, lad: the match is done. Jer. Raymond Mounchensey, now I touch thy grief With the true feeling of a zealous friend. And as for fair and beauteous Millicent, With my vain breath I will not seek to slubber Her angel-like perfections: but thou know'st That Essex hath the saint that I adore: Where-e'er didst meet me, that we two were jovial, But like a wag thou hast not laugh'd at me, And with regardless jesting mock'd my love? How My sighs have drunk the dew from off the earth, And I have taught the nightingale to wake, And from the meadows sprung the early lark An hour before she should have list to sing: I have loaded the poor minutes with my moans, To hang like heavy clogs upon the day. But, dear Mouncheusey, had not my affection Seiz'd on the beauty of another dame, Before I'd wrong the chase, and leave the love Of one so worthy and so true a friend, I will abjure both beauty and her sight, And will in love become a counterfeit. Moun. Dear Jerningham, thou hast begot my life, And from the mouth of hell, where now I sat, I feel my spirit rebound against the stars, Thou hast conquer'd me, dear friend, in my free soul, There time nor death can by their power control. Fab. Frank Jerningham, thou art a gallant boy; And were he not my pupil, I would say He were as fine a metall'd gentleman, Of as free spirit and of as fine a temper, As is in England; and he is a man That very richly may deserve thy love. But, noble Clare, this while of our discourse, What may Mounchensey's honour to thyself Exact upon the measure of thy grace? Y. Clare. Raymond Mounchensey, I would have thee know, He does not breathe this air, whose love I cherish, And whose soul I love more than Mounchensey's: Nor ever in my life did see the man Whom, for his wit and many virtuous parts, I think more worthy of my sister's love. But since the matter grows unto this pass, But when thou list to visit her by night, My horse is saddled, and the stable door Stands ready for thee; use them at thy pleasure. In honest marriage wed her frankly, boy, And if thou gett'st her, lad, God give thee joy. Moun. Then, care away! let fate my fall pretend, Back'd with the favours of so true a friend! Fab. Let us alone, to bustle for the set; For age and craft with wit and art have met. I'll make my spirits to dance such nightly jigs Along the way 'twixt this and Tot'nam Cross, The carriers' jades shall cast their heavy packs, And the strong hedges scarce shall keep them in: The milkmaids' cuts And lay their dossers The frank and merry London 'prentices, That come for cream and lusty country cheer, Shall lose their way; and, scrambling in the ditches All night shall whoop and hallo, cry and call, Yet none to other find the way at all. Moun. Pursue the project, scholar: what we can do To help endeavour, join our lives thereto. [Exeunt. Enter Banks, Sir John, and Smug. Banks. Take me with you, Smug. Banks, your ale is as a Philistine fox; nouns! there's fire i' th' tail on't; you are a rogue to charge us with mugs i' th' rearward; a plague of this wind! O, it tickles our catastrophe! Sir John. Neighbour Banks of Waltham, and goodman Smug, the honest smith of Edmonton, as I dwell betwixt you both at Enfield, I know the taste of both your ale-houses; they are good both, smart both. Hem! grass and hay! we are all mortal; let's live till we die, and be merry; and there's an end. Banks. Well said, Sir John, you are of the same humour still; and doth the water run the same way still, boy? Smug. Vulcan was a rogue to him; Sir John, lock, lock, lock fast, Sir John; so, Sir John. I'll one' of these years, when it shall please the goddesses and the destinies, be drunk in your company; that's all now, and God send us health. Shall I swear I love you? Sir John. No oaths, no oaths, good neighbour Smug. We'll wet our lips together, and hug; Carouse in private, and elevate the heart, and the liver, and the lights—and the lights, mark you me—within us: for, hem! grass and hay! we are all mortal; let's live till we die, and be merry; and there's an end. Banks. But to our former motion about stealing some venison; whither go we? Sir John. Into the forest, neighbour Banks: into Brian's walk, the mad-keeper. Smug. Blood! I'll tickle your keeper. Banks. I' faith, thou art always drunk when we Smug. Need of me! heart! you shall have need of me always, while there is iron in an anvil. Banks. Master Parson, may the smith go (think you), being in this taking? Smug. Go! I'll go, in spite of all the bells in Waltham. Sir John. The question is good, neighbour Banks—let me see: the moon shines to-night,—there's not a narrow bridge betwixt this and the forest,—his brain may be settled ere night: he may go, he may go, neighbour Banks. Now we want none but the company of mine host Blague, of the George at Waltham: if he were here, our consort were full. Look where comes my good host, the Duke of Norfolk's man! And how? and how? Ahem! grass and hay! we are not yet mortal; let us live till we die, and be merry; and there's an end. Enter Host. Host. Ha! my Castilian dialogues; and art thou in breath still, boy? Miller, doth the match hold? Smith, I see by thy eyes thou hast been reading a little Geneva print: but wend Banks. 'Tis well; but how, if any of us should be taken? Smug. He shall have ransom, by my sword. Host. Tush, the knave keepers are my bona socias Smug. O rare! who-ho-ho, boy! Sir John. Peace, neighbour Smug. You see this boor, a boor of the country, an illiterate boor, and yet the citizen of good-fellows. Come, let's provide: ahem! grass and hay! we are not yet all mortal; we'll live till we die, and be merry; and there's an end. Come, Smug. Smug. Good night, Waltham—who-ho-ho, boy! [Exeunt. Enter the Knights and Gentlemen from breakfast again. L. Clare. Ay, do, do: fill all the world with talk of us, man; man, I never looked for better at your hands. Fab. I hop'd your great experience and your years Would have prov'd patience rather to your soul, Than with this frantic and untamed passion To whet their skeins; I hope their friendships are too well confirm'd. And their minds temper'd with more kindly heat, Than for their forward parent's frowardness, That they should break forth into public brawls. Howe'er the rough hand of the untoward world Yet I am sure the first intent was love: Then since the first spring was so sweet and warm, Let it die gently: ne'er kill it with scorn. Ray. O, thou base world! how leprous is that soul, That is once lim'd in that polluted mud! O Sir Arthur! you have startled his free active spirit With a too sharp spur for his mind to bear. Have patience, sir; the remedy to woe Is to leave that of force we must forego. Mil. And I must take a twelvemonth's approbation, That in the meantime this sole and private life At the year's end may fashion me a wife. But, sweet Mounchensey, ere this year be done, Thou'st be a friar, if that I be a nun. And, father, ere young Jerningham's I'll be. I will turn mad to spite both him and thee. [Aside. Clare. Wife, come to horse; and, huswife, make you ready: For if I live, I swear by this good light, I'll see you lodg'd in Cheston House to-night. [Exeunt. O. Moun. Raymond, away; thou see'st how matters fall. Churl, hell consume thee, and thy pelf and all! Fab. Now, Master Clare, you see how matters fadge; Your Millicent must needs be made a nun. Hold you your peace, and be a looker-on: And send her unto Cheston, when I'll send me fellows of a handful high Into the cloisters, where the nuns frequent, Shall make them skip like does about the dale; And make the lady prioress of the house To play at leap-frog naked in her smock, Until the merry wenches at their mass Cry teehee, weehee; And tickling these mad lasses in their flanks, Shall sprawl and squeak, and pinch their fellow-nuns. Be lively, boys, before the wench we lose, I'll make the abbess wear the canon's hose. [Exeunt. Enter Harry Clare, Frank Jerningham. Peter Fabel, and Millicent. H. Clare. Spite now hath done her worst; sister, be patient. Jer. Forewarn'd poor Raymond's company! O heaven! When the composure of weak frailty meet[s] Upon this mart of dirt, O, then weak love Must in her own unhappiness be silent, And wink on all deformities. Mil. 'Tis well: Where's Raymond, brother? Where's my dear Mounchensey? Would we might weep together, and then part, One Fab. Sweet beauty, fold your sorrows in the thought Of future reconcilement: let your tears Show you a woman, but no Than from the eyes: for sweet experience says That love is firm, that's flatter'd with delays. Mil. Alas! sir, think you I shall e'er be his? Fab. As sure as parting smiles on future bliss. Yond comes my friend; see, he hath doated So long upon your beauty, that your want Will with a pale retirement waste his blood: For in true love music doth sweetly dwell: Sever'd, these less worlds bear within them hell. Enter Mounchensey. Moun. Harry and Frank, you are enjoined to wean Your friendship from me: we must part; the breath Of ill Faith, I must say so; you may think I love you, I breathe not rougher spite to sever us; We'll meet by stealth, sweet friend, by stealth you twain; Kisses are sweetest got by struggling pain. Jer. Our friendship dies not, Raymond. Moun. Pardon me: I am busied; I have lost my faculties, And buried them in Millicent's clear eyes. Mil. Alas! sweet love, what shall become of me? I must to Cheston to the nunnery, I shall ne'er see thee more. Moun. How, sweet! I'll be thy votary, we'll often meet: This kiss divides us, and breathes soft adieu— This be a double charm to keep both true. Fab. Have done: your fathers may chance spy your parting. Refuse not you by any means, good sweetness, To go into the nunnery, for from hence Must we beget your love's sweet happiness. You shall not stay there long: your harder bed Shall be more soft, when nun and maid are dead. Enter Bilbo. Moun. Now, sirrah, what's the matter? Bil. Marry, you must to horse presently; that villanous old gouty churl, Sir Arthur Clare, longs till he be at the nunnery. H. Clare. How, sir? Bil. Moun. Bring me my gelding, sirrah. Bil. Well, nothing grieves me, but for the poor wench; she must now cry vale to lobster-pies, artichokes, and all such meats of mortality. Poor gentlewoman! the sign must not be in virgo any longer with her, and that me grieves: farewell. Poor Millicent Must pray and repent: O fatal wonder! She'll now be no fatter, Love must not come at her, Yet she shall be kept under. [Exit. Jer. Farewell, dear Raymond. H. Clare. Friend, adieu. Mil. Dear sweet. No joy enjoys my heart till we next meet. [Exeunt. Fab. Well, Raymond, now the tide of discontent Beats in thy face; but, ere't be long, the wind Shall turn the flood. We must to Waltham Abbey. And as fair Millicent in Cheston lives A most unwilling nun, so thou shalt there Become a beardless novice, to what end, Let time and future accidents declare. Taste thou my sleights: thy love I'll only share. Moun. Turn friar? Come, my good counsellor, let's go, Yet that disguise will hardly shroud my woe. [Exeunt. Enter the Prioress of Cheston, with a nun or two, Sir Arthur Clare, Sir Ralph Jerningham, Henry and Frank, Lady Clare, Bilbo, with Millicent. L. Clare. Madam, The love unto this holy sisterhood And our confirm'd opinion of your zeal Hath truly won us to bestow our child Rather on this than any neighbouring cell. Pri. Jesus' daughter, Mary's child, Holy matron, woman mild, For thee a mass shall still be said, Every sister drop a bead; And those again succeeding them For you shall sing a Requiem. Frank. The wench is gone, Harry; she is no more a woman of this world. Mark her well, she looks like a nun already: what think'st on her? Har. By my faith, her face comes handsomely to't. But peace, let's hear the rest. Sir Arth. Madam, for a twelvemonth's approbation, We mean to make this trial of our child. Your care and our dear blessing, in meantime, We pray may prosper this intended work. Pri. May your happy soul be blithe, That so truly pay your tithe: He that many children gave, 'Tis fit that he one child should have. Then, fair virgin, hear my spell, For I must your duty tell. Mil. Good men and true, stand together, And hear your charge. [Aside. Pri. First, a-mornings take your book, The glass wherein yourself must look; Your young thoughts, so proud and jolly, Must be turn'd to motions holy; For your busk attires and toys, Have your thoughts on heavenly joys: And for all your follies past, You must do penance, pray and fast. Bil. Let her take heed of fasting; and if ever she hurt herself with praying, I'll ne'er trust beast. [Aside. Mil. This goes hard, by'r Lady! Pri. You shall ring the sacring-bell, Keep your hours and toll Rise at midnight to your matins, Read your psalter, sing your latins; And when your blood shall kindle pleasure, Scourge yourself in plenteous measure. Mil. Worse and worse, by Saint Mary! [Aside. Frank. Sirrah Hal, how does she hold her countenance? Well, go thy ways, if ever thou prove a nun, I'll build an abbey. [Aside. Har. She may be a nun; but if ever she prove [Aside. Frank. To her again, mother. [Aside. Har. Hold thine own, wench. [Aside. Pri. You must read the morning mass, You must creep unto the cross, Put cold ashes on your head, Have a hair-cloth for your bed. Bil. She had rather have a man in her bed. Pri. Bind your beads, and tell your needs, Your holy aves and your creeds: Holy maid, this must be done, If you mean to live a nun. Mil. The holy maid will be no nun. [Aside. Sir Arth. Madam, we have some business of import, And must be gone; Will't please you take my wife into your closet, Who farther will acquaint you with my mind: And so, good madam, for this time adieu. [Exeunt women and Sir Arthur. Sir Ralph. Well now, Frank Jerningham, how sayest thou? To be brief— What wilt thou say for all this, if we two, Her father and myself, can bring about, That we convert this nun to be a wife, And thou the husband to this pretty nun? How then, my lad, ha? Frank, it may be done. Har. Ay, now it works. Frank. O God, sir! you amaze me at your words; Think with yourself, sir, what a thing it were To cause a recluse to remove her vow: A sainted, Ever mortified with fasting and with prayer, Whose thoughts, even as her eyes, are fix'd on heaven. To draw a virgin thus devout with zeal Back to the world: O impious deed! Nor by the canon-law can it be done Without a dispensation from the church; Besides, she is so prone unto this life, As she'll even shriek to hear a husband nam'd. Bil. Ay, a poor innocent, she! Well, here's no knavery; He flouts the old fools to their teeth. [Aside. Sir Ralph. Boy, I am glad to hear Thou mak'st such scruple of thy And in a man so young as is yourself, I promise you 'tis very seldom seen. But, Frank, this is a trick, a mere device— A sleight plotted betwixt her father and myself To thrust Mounchensey's nose beside the cushion; That being thus debarr'd of all access. Time yet may work him from her thoughts, And give thee ample scope to thy desires. Bil. A plague on you both for a couple of Jews. [Aside. Har. How now, Frank, what say you to that? Frank. Let me alone, I warrant thee. [To Harry. Sir, assured that this motion doth proceed From your most kind and fatherly affection. I do dispose my liking to your pleasure: But for it is a matter of such moment As holy marriage, I must crave thus much, To have some conference with my ghostly father, Friar Hildersham hereby at Waltham Abbey, To be absolv'd of things, that it is fit None only but my confessor should know. Sir Ralph. With all my heart. He is a reverend man. And to-morrow morning we will meet all at the abbey, Where by the opinion of that reverend man We will proceed; I like it passing well. Till then we part, boy. Ay, think of it; farewell. A parent's care no mortal tongue can tell. [Exeunt. Enter Sir Arthur Clare, and Raymond Mounchensey like a friar. Sir Arth. Holy young novice, I have told you now My full intent, and do refer the rest To your professed secrecy and care: And see, Our serious speech hath stolen upon the way, That we are come unto the abbey gate. Because I know Mounchensey is a fox, I'll not be seen, not I; tush, I have done, I had a daughter, but she's now a nun. Farewell, dear son, farewell. [Exit. Moun. Fare you well. Ay, you have done? Your daughter, sir, shall not be long a nun. O my rare tutor! never mortal brain Plotted out such a mesh And my dear bosom is so great with laughter, Begot by his simplicity and error, My soul is fall'n in labour with her joy. O my friends, Frank Jerningham and Clare! Did you but know but how this jest takes fire— That good Sir Arthur, thinking me a novice, Hath even pour'd himself into my bosom, O, you would vent your spleens with tickling mirth! But, Raymond, peace, and have an eye about, For fear perhaps some of the nuns look out. Peace and charity within, Never touch'd with deadly sin; I cast holy water pure On this wall and on this door, That from evil shall defend, And keep you from the ugly fiend: Evil sprite, by night nor day, Shall approach or come this way; Elf nor fairy, by this grace, Day nor night shall haunt this place. Holy maidens— [Answer within.] Who's that which knocks? ha, who's there? Moun. Gentle nun, here is a friar. Enter Nun. Nun. A friar without? now Christ us save! Holy man, what wouldst thou have? Moun. Holy maid, I hither come From friar and father Hildersham, Of the prioress of this place, Amongst you all to visit one That's come for approbation; Before she was as now you are, The daughter of Sir Arthur Clare, But since she now became a nun, Call'd Millicent of Edmonton. Nun. Holy man, repose you there; This news I'll to our abbess bear, To tell her what a man is sent, And your message and intent. Moun. Benedicite. Nun. Benedicite. [Exit. Moun. Do, my good plump wench; if all fall right, I'll make your sisterhood one less by night. Now, happy fortune, speed this merry drift, I like a wench comes roundly to her shrift. Enter Lady and Millicent. Lady. Have friars recourse then to the house of nuns? Mil. Madam, it is the order of this place, When any virgin comes for approbation (Lest that for fear or such sinister practice She should be forc'd to undergo this veil, Which should proceed from conscience and devotion), A visitor is sent from Waltham House, To take the true confession of the maid. Lady. Is that the order? I commend it well: You to your shrift, I'll back unto the cell. [Exit. Moun. Life of my soul! bright angel! Mil. What means the friar? Moun. O Millicent, 'tis I. Mil. My heart misgives me: I should know that voice. You? who are you? the holy virgin bless me! Tell me your name: you shall, ere you confess me. Moun. Mounchensey, thy true friend. Mil. My Raymond! my dear heart! Sweet life, give leave to my distracted soul To wake a little from this swoon of joy. By what means cam'st thou to assume this shape? Moun. By means of Peter Fabel, my kind tutor, Who in the habit of friar Hildersham, Frank Jerningham's old friend and confessor, Plotted by Frank, by Fabel, and myself, And so delivered to Sir Arthur Clare, Who brought me here unto the abbey-gate, To be his nun-made daughter's visitor. Mil. You are all sweet traitors to my poor old father. O my dear life! I was a-dreamed to-night That, as I was praying in my psalter, There came a spirit unto me as I kneel'd, And by his strong persuasions tempted me To leave this nunnery: and methought He came in the most glorious angel-shape, That mortal eye did ever look upon. Ha! thou art sure that spirit, for there's no form Is in mine eye so glorious as thine own. Moun. O thou idolatress, that dost this worship To him whose likeness is but praise of thee! Thou bright unsetting star, which through this veil For very envy mak'st the sun look pale. Mil. Well, visitor, lest that perhaps my mother Should think the friar too strict in his decrees, I this confess to my sweet ghostly father; If chaste pure love be sin, I must confess, I have offended three years now with thee. Moun. But do you yet repent you of the same? Mil. I' faith, I cannot. Moun. Nor will I absolve thee Of that sweet sin, though it be venial: Yet have the penance of a thousand kisses; And I enjoin you to this pilgrimage:— That in the evening you bestow yourself Here in the walk near to the willow ground, Where I'll be ready both with men and horse To wait your coming, and convey you hence Unto a lodge I have in Enfield Chase: No more reply, if that you yield consent— I see more eyes upon our stay are bent. Mil. Sweet life, farewell, 'tis done, let that suffice; What my tongue fails, I send thee by mine eyes. [Exit. Enter Fabel, Jer. Now, visitor, how does this new-made nun? Y. Clare. Come, come, how does she, noble capuchin? Moun. She may be poor in spirit, but for the flesh, 'Tis fat and plump, boys. Ah! rogues, there is A company of girls would turn you all friars. Fab. But how, Mounchensey, how, lad, for the wench? Moun. Zounds, lads, i'faith I thank my holy habit— I have confess'd her, and the lady prioress Hath given me ghostly counsel with her blessing. And how say ye, boys, If I be chose the weekly visitor? Y. Clare. Blood! she'll have ne'er a nun unbagg'd to sing mass then. Jer. The Abbot of Waltham will have as many children to put to nurse as he has calves in the marsh. Moun. Well, to be brief, the nun will soon at night turn tippet; Fab. But, sirrah Raymond, what news of Peter Fabel at the house? Moun. Tush, he is the only man, a necromancer and a conjuror, that works for young Mounchensey altogether; and if it be not for friar Benedic, that he can cross him by his learned skill, the wench is gone, Fabel will fetch her out by very magic. Fab. Stands the wind there, boy? keep them in that key, The wench is ours before to-morrow day. Well, Harry Stick to us close this once; you know your fathers Have men and horse lie ready still at Cheston, To watch the coast be clear, to scout about, And have an eye unto Mounchensey's walks: Therefore you two may hover thereabouts, And no man will suspect you for the matter: Be ready but to take her at our hands, Leave us to scamble Jer. Blood! if all Hertfordshire were at our Y. Clare. But whither, Raymond? Moun. To Brian's upper lodge in Enfield Chase; He is mine honest friend, and a tall keeper; I'll send my man unto him presently, To acquaint him with your coming and intent. Fab. Be brief and secret. Moun. Soon at night remember You bring your horses to the willow ground. Jer. 'Tis done, no more. Y. Clare. We will not fail the hour: My life and fortune now lie in your power. Fab. About our business! Raymond, let's away, Think of your hour: it draws well off the day. [Exeunt. Enter Blague, Banks, Smug, and Sir John. Blague. Come, ye Hungarian Smug. Mine host, my bully, my precious consul, my noble Holofernes, I have been drunk in thy house twenty times and ten; all's one for that: I was last night in the third heaven, my brain was poor, it had yeast in't, but now I am a man of action; is't not so, lad? Banks. Why, now, thou hast two of the liberal sciences about thee, wit and reason, thou mayest serve the Duke of Europe. Smug. I will serve the Duke of Christendom, and do him more credit in his cellar than all the plate in his buttery; is't not so, lad? Sir John. Mine host and Smug, stand there: Banks, you and your horse keep together, but lie close, show no tricks for fear of the keeper. If we be scared, we'll meet in the church-porch at Enfield. Smug. Content, Sir John. Banks. Smug, dost not thou remember the tree thou fellest out of last night? Smug. Tush, and't had been as high as an abbey, I should ne'er have hurt myself; I have fallen into the river coming home from Waltham, and 'scaped drowning. Sir John. Come, sever, fear no spirits, we'll have a buck presently; we have watched later than this for a doe, mine host. Host. Thou speakest as true as velvet. Sir John. Why then come, grass and hay! &c. Enter Young Clare, Jerningham, and Millicent. Y. Clare. Frank Jerningham! Jer. Speak softly; rogue, how now? Y. Clare. 'Sfoot, we shall lose our way, it's so dark: whereabouts are we? Jer. Why, man, at Porter's gate, t Y. Clare. Ten, the bell says. Jer. A lie's in's throat, it was but eight when we set out of Cheston; Sir John and his sexton are at their ale to-night, the clock runs at random. Y. Clare. Nay, as sure as thou liv'st, the villanous vicar is abroad in the chase this dark night: the stone priest steals more venison than half the country. Jer. Millicent, now dost thou? Mil. Sir, very well. I would to God we were at Brian's lodge. Y. Clare. We shall anon; nouns! hark! What means this noise? Jer. Stay, I hear horsemen. Y. Clare. I hear footmen too. Jer. Nay, then I have it: we have been discovered, And we are followed by our fathers' men. Mil. Brother and friend, alas! what shall we do? Y. Clare. Sister, speak softly, or we are descried, They are hard upon us, whatsoe'er they be; Shadow yourself behind this brake of fern, We'll get into the wood, and let them pass. Enter Sir John, Blague, Smug, and Banks; one after another. Sir John. Grass and hay! we are all mortal: the keeper's abroad, and there's an end. Banks. Sir John! Sir John. Neighbour Banks, what news? Banks. Zounds, Sir John, the keepers are abroad; I was hard by 'em. Sir John. Grass and hay! where's mine host Blague? Blague. Here, metropolitan; the Philistines are upon us, be s Smug. Here: a pox on you all, dogs; I have killed the greatest buck in Brian's walk: shift for yourselves, all the keepers are up; let's meet in Enfield church-porch. Away, we are all taken else. [Exeunt. Enter Brian, with his man Ralph and his hound. Brian. Ralph, hear'st thou any stirring? Ralph. I heard one speak here hard by in the bottom. Peace, master, speak low; nouns! if I did not hear a bow go off and the buck bray, I never heard deer in my life. Brian. When went your fellows into their walks? Ralph. An hour ago. Brian. Life! is there stealers abroad, and we cannot hear of them? Where the devil are my men to-night? Sirrah, go up and wind toward Buckley's lodge: I'll cast about the bottom with my hound, And I will meet thee under Cony-oak. Ralph. I will, sir. [Exit. Brian. How now! by the mass, my hound stays upon something; hark, hark, Bowman! hark, hark there! Mil. Brother, Frank Jerningham, brother Clare! Brian. Peace; that a woman's voice! Stand! who's there? Stand, or I'll shoot. Mil. O lord! hold your hands, I mean no harm, sir. Brian. Speak, who are you? Mil. I am a maid, sir. Who? Master Brian? Brian. The very same: sure, I should know her voice? Mistress Millicent! Mil. Ay, it is I, sir. Brian. God for his passion! what make yo Mil. My brother, sir, and Master Jerningham who, hearing folks about us in the Chase, feared it had been Sir Arthur my father, who had pursued us, and thus dispersed ourselves, till they were past us. Brian. But where be they? Mil. They be not far off—here about the grove. Enter Young Clare and Jerningham. Y. Clare. Be not afraid, man; I hear Brian's tongue, that's certain. Jer. Call softly for your sister. Y. Clare. Millicent! Mil. Ay, brother, here. Brian. Master Clare! Y. Clare. I told you it was Brian. Brian. Who is that, Master Jerningham? You are a couple of hot-shots: does a man commit his wench to you, to put her to grass at this time of night? Jer. We heard a noise about us in the Chase, And fearing that our fathers had pursu'd us, Severed ourselves. Y. Clare. Brian, how happedst thou on her? Brian. Seeking for stealers that are abroad tonight, My hound stay'd on her, and so found her out. Y. Clare They were these stealers that affrighted us; I was hard upon them when they hors'd their deer, And I perceive they took me for a keeper. Brian. Which way took they? Jer. Towards Enfield. Brian. A plague upon't, that's the damned priest and Blague of the George—he that serves the good Duke of Norfolk. [A noise within.] Follow, follow, follow! Y. Clare. Peace; that's my father's voice. Brian. Nouns! you suspected them, and now they are here indeed. Mil. Alas! what shall we do? Brian. If you go to the lodge, you are surely taken: Strike down the wood to Enfield presently, And if Mounchensey come, I'll send him to you. Let me alone to bustle with your fathers; I warrant you that I will keep them play Till you have quit the Chase; away, away. [Exeunt. Who's there? Enter the Knights. Sir Ralph. In the king's name, pursue the ravisher. Brian. Stand, or I'll shoot. Sir Arth. Who's there? Brian. I am the keeper, that do charge you stand; You have stolen my deer. Sir Arth. We stolen thy deer? we do pursue a thief. Brian. You are arrant thieves, and ye have stolen my deer. Sir Arth. We are knights; Sir Arthur Clare and Sir Ralph Jerningham. Brian. The more your shame, that knights should bo such thieves. Sir Arth. Who or what art thou? Brian. My name is Brian, keeper of this walk. Sir Arth. O Brian, a villain! Thou hast receiv'd my daughter to thy lodge. Brian. You have stolen the best deer in my walk to-night: my deer— Sir Arth. My daughter—Stop not my way. Brian. What make you in my walk? you have stolen the best buck in my walk to-night. Sir Arth. My daughter— Brian. My deer— Sir Ralph. Where is Mounchensey? Brian. Where is my buck? Sir Arth. I will complain me of thee to the king. Brian. I'll complain unto the king you spoil his game: 'tis strange that men of your account and calling will offer it. I tell you true, Sir Arthur and Sir Ralph, that none but you have only spoiled my game. Sir Arth. I charge you stop us not. Brian. I charge you both get out of my ground. Is this a time for such as you, men of place and of your gravity, to be abroad a-thieving? 'tis a shame; and afore God, if I had shot at you, I had served you well enough. [Exeunt. Enter Banks the miller, wet on his legs. Banks. Foot, here's a dark night indeed: I think I have been in fifteen ditches between this and the forest. Soft, here's Enfield church: I am so wet with climbing over into an orchard for to steal some filberts. Well, here I'll sit in the church-porch, and wait for the rest of my consorts. Enter Sexton. Sex. Here's a sky as black as Lucifer, God bless us! Here was goodman Theophilus buried: he was the best nut-cracker that ever dwelt in England. Well, 'tis nine o'clock, 'tis time to ring curfew. Enter Sir John. Sir John. Grass and hay! we are all mortal; who's there? Sex. We are grass and hay indeed: I know you to be master parson by your phrase. Priest. Sexton! Sex. Ay, sir. Priest. For mortality's sake, what's the matter? Sex. O Lord, I am a man of another element; Master Theophilus's ghost is in the church-porch. There was an hundred cats, all fire, dancing even now, and they are clomb up to the top of the steeple; I'll not into the belfry for a world. Priest. O goodman Solomon, I have been about a deed of darkness to-night: O Lord! I saw fifteen spirits in the forest like white bulls; if I lie, I am an arrant thief: mortality haunts us—grass and hay! the devil's at our heels, and let's hence to the parsonage. [Exeunt. The Miller comes out very softly. Miller. What noise was that? 'tis the watch; sure, that villanous unlucky rogue Smug is ta'en; upon my life, and then all our knavery comes out! I heard one cry, sure. Enter host Blague. Host. If I go steal any more venison, I am a paradox: foot, I can scarce bear the sin of my flesh in the day, 'tis so heavy: if I turn not honest, and serve the good Duke of Norfolk as a true mareterraneum skinker Miller. By the mass, there are some watchmen; I hear them name master constable: I would my mill were an eunuch, and wanted her stones, so I were hence. Host. Who's there? Miller. Tis the constable, by this light: I'll steal hence, and if I can meet mine host Blague, I'll tell him how Smug is ta'en, and will him to look to himself. [Exit. Host. What the devil is that white thing? this same is a churchyard, and I have heard that ghosts and villanous goblins have been seen here. Enter Sexton and Priest. Priest. Grass and hay! O, that I could conjure! we saw a spirit here in the churchyard; and in the fallow field there's the devil with a man's body upon his back in a white sheet. Sex. It may be a woman's body, Sir John. Priest. If she be a woman, the sheets damn her. Lord bless us, what a night of mortality is this! Host. Priest! Priest. Mine host! Host. Did you not see a spirit all in white cross you at the stile? Sex. O no, mine host; but there sat one in the porch: I have not breath enough left to bless me from the devil. Host. Who's that? Priest. The sexton, almost frightened out of his wits. Did you see Banks or Smug? Host. No, they are gone to Waltham, sure. I would fain hence; come, let's to my house: I'll ne'er serve the Duke of Norfolk in this fashion again whilst I breathe. If the devil be among us, it's time to hoist sail, and cry roomer. Priest. We are all mortal, mine host. Host. True; and I'll serve God in the night hereafter afore the Duke of Norfolk. [Exeunt. Enter Sir Arthur Clare and Sir Ralph Jerningham, Sir Ralph. Good-morrow, gentle knight; A happy day after your short night's rest. Sir Arth. Ha, ha! Sir Ralph, stirring so soon indeed? By'r Lady, sir, rest would have done right well: Our riding late last night has made me drowsy. Go to, go to, those days are gone with us. Sir Ralph. Sir Arthur, Sir Arthur, care go with those days! Let 'em even go together, let 'em go; 'Tis time, i' faith, that we were in our graves, When children leave obedience to their parents When there's no fear of God, no care, no duty. Well, well—nay, it shall not do, it shall not: No, Mounchensey, thou'lt hear on't, thou shalt, Thou shalt, i' faith; I'll hang thy son, If there be law in England. A man's child Ravish'd from a nunnery! This is rare! Well, there's one gone for friar Hildersham. Sir Arth. Nay, gentle knight, do not vex thus, it will but hurt your heat. You cannot grieve more than I do; but to what end? But hark you, Sir Ralph, I was about to say something—it makes no matter. But hark you in your ear; the friar's a knave: but God forgive me, a man cannot tell, neither. 'Sfoot, I am so out of patience, I know not what to say. Sir Ralph. There's one went for the friar an hour ago. Comes he not yet? 'Sfoot, if I do find knavery under's cowl, I'll tickle him, I'll ferk him. Here, here, he's here, he's here. Good-morrow, friar; good-morrow, gentle friar. Enter Hildersham. Sir Arth. Good-morrow, father Hildersham, good-morrow. Hil. Good-morrow, reverend knights, unto you both. Sir Arth. Father, how now? You hear how matters go; I am undone, my child is cast away; You did your best, at least I think the best: But we are all cross'd; flatly, all is dash'd. Hil. Alas! good knights, how might the matter be? Let me understand your grief for charity. Sir Arth. Who does not understand my grief? Alas! alas! And yet you do not: will the church permit A nun in approbation of her habit To be ravished? Hil. A holy woman, benedicite! Now God forfend, To touch the sister of a holy house. Sir Arth. Jesus deliver me! Sir Ralph. Why, Millicent, the daughter of this knight, Is out of Cheston taken this last night. Hil. Was that fair maiden late become a nun? Sir Ralph. Was she, quoth a? Knavery, knavery, knavery, knavery; I smell it, I smell it. I' faith, is the wind in that door? Is it even so? Dost thou ask me that now? Hil. It is the first time that e'er I heard of it. Sir Arth. That's very strange. Sir Ralph. Why, tell me, friar, tell me: thou art counted a holy man? Do not play the hypocrite with me, nor Hil. Why, reverend knight— Sir Ralph. Unreverend friar— Hil. Nay, then give me leave, sir, to depart in quiet: I had hop'd you had sent for me to some other end. Sir Arth. Nay, stay, good friar, if anything hath happ'd About this matter in thy love to us, That thy strict order cannot justify, Admit it to be so, we will cover it; Take no care, man: Disclaim not yet my counsel and advice, The wisest man that is may be o'erreach'd. Hil. Sir Arthur, by my order and my faith, I know not what you mean. Sir Ralph. By your order and by your faith? This is most strange of all. Why, tell me, friar, are not you confessor to my son Frank? Hil. Yes, that I am. Sir Ralph. And did not this good knight here and myself Confess with you, being his ghostly father, To deal with him about th' unbanded marriage Betwixt him and that fair young Millicent? Hil. I never heard of any match intended. Sir Arth. Did not we break our minds that very time, That our device in making her a nun Was but a colour and a very plot To put by young Mounchensey? Is't not true? Hil. The more I strive to know what you should mean, The less I understand you. Sir Ralph. Did not you tell us still, how Peter Fabel At length would cross us, if we took not heed? Hil. I have heard of one that is a great magician; But he's about the university. Sir Ralph. Did not you send your novice Benedic To persuade the girl to leave Mounchensey's love, To cross that Peter Fabel in his art, And to that purpose made him visitor? Hil. I never sent my novice from my house, Nor have we made our visitation yet. Sir Arth. Never sent him! Nay, did he not go? and did not I direct him to the house, and confer with him by the way? and did not he tell me what charge he had received from you, word by word, as I requested at your hands? Hil. That you shall know; he came along with me, And stays without. Come hither, Benedic. Enter Benedic. Young Benedic, were you e'er sent by me To Cheston nunnery for a visitor? Ben. Never, sir, truly. Sir Ralph. Stranger than all the rest! Sir Arth. Did not I direct you to the house: Confer with you from Waltham Abbey Unto Cheston wall? Ben. I never saw you, sir, before this hour. Sir Ralph. The devil thou didst not! Ho, chamberlain! Enter Chamberlain. Cham. Anon, anon. Sir Ralph. Call mine host Blague hither. Cham. I will send one over, sir, to see if he be up. I think he be scarce stirring yet. Sir Ralph. Why, knave, didst thou not tell me an hour ago mine host was up! Cham. Ay, sir, my master's up. Sir Ralph. You knave, is he up, and is he not up? Dost thou mock me? Cham. Ay, sir, my master is up; but I think Master Blague indeed be not stirring. Sir Ralph. Why, who's thy master? Is not the master of the house thy master? Cham. Yes, sir; but Master Blague dwells over the way. Sir Arth. Is not this the George? Before Jove, there's some villany in this. Cham. Foot, our sign's removed; this is strange! Enter Blague, trussing his points. Sir Arth. Mine host, mine host, we lay all night at the George in Waltham; but whether the George be your fee-simple or no, 'tis a question. Look upon your sign. Host. Body of St George, this is mine over-thwart neighbour hath done this to seduce my blind customers. I'll tickle his catastrophe for this; if I do not indict him at the next assizes for burglary, let me die of the yellows; Sir Arth. Mine host, we have had the moilingest night of it that ever we had in our lives. Host. Is it certain? Sir Arth. We have been in the forest all night almost. Host. Foot, how did I miss you? Heart! I was stealing of a buck there. Sir Arth. A plague on you; we were stayed for you. Host. Were you, my noble Romans? Why, you shall share; the venison is a-footing. Sine Cerere et Baccho friget Venus, that is, there is a good breakfast provided for a marriage that is in my house this morning. Sir Arth. A marriage, mine host! Host. A conjunction copulative; a gallant match between your daughter and Raymond Mounchensey, young juventus. Sir Arth. How? Host. Tis firm; 'tis done. We'll show you a precedent in the civil law fort. Sir Ralph. How! married? Host. Leave tricks and admiration; there's a cleanly pair of sheets on the bed in the Orchard-chamber, and they shall lie there. What? I'll do it. I serve the good Duke of Norfolk. Sir Arth. Thou shalt repent this, Blague. Sir Ralph. If any law in England will make thee smart for this, expect it with all severity. Host. I renounce your defiance; if you parley so roughly, I'll barricado my gates against you. Stand fair, bully; priest, come off from the rearward. What can you say now? 'Twas done in my house. I have shelter in the court for't. Do you see yon bay-window? I serve the good Duke of Norfolk, and 'tis his lodging. Storm, I care not, serving the good Duke of Norfolk. Thou art an actor in this, and thou shalt carry fire in thy face eternally. Enter Smug, Mounchensey, Harry Clare, and Millicent. Smug. Fire! nouns, there's no fire in England like your Trinidado sack. Host. In good sooth, Smug, there's more sack on the fire, Smug. Smug. I do not take any exceptions against your sack: but if you lend me a pike-staff, I'll cudgel them all hence, by this hand. Host. I say thou shalt into the cellar. Smug. 'Sfoot, mine host, shall's not grapple? Pray you, pray you; I could fight now for all the world like a cockatrice's egg. Shall's not serve the Duke of Norfolk? [Exit. Host. In, skipper, in. Sir Arth. Sirrah, hath young Mounchensey married your sister? H. Clare. 'Tis certain, sir; here's the priest that coupled them, the parties joined, and the honest witness that cried amen. Moun. Sir Arthur Clare, my new-created father, I beseech you hear me. Sir Arth. Sir, sir, you are a foolish boy; you have done that you cannot answer; I dare be bold to seize her from you, for she's a professed nun. Mil. With pardon, sir, that name is quite undone; This true-love knot cancels both maid and nun. When first you told me, I should act that part, How cold and bloody it crept o'er my heart. To Cheston with a smiling brow I went, But yet, dear sir, it was to this intent, That my sweet Raymond might find better means, To steal me thence. In brief, disguis'd he came, Like novice to old father Hildersham; His tutor here did act that cunning part, And in our love hath join'd much wit to art. Sir Arth. Is it even so? Mil. With pardon therefore we entreat your smiles! Love (thwarted) turns itself to thousand wiles. Sir Arth. Young Master Jerningham, were you an actor Jer. My thoughts, good sir, Did labour seriously unto this end— To wrong myself, ere I'd abuse my friend. Host. He speaks like a bachelor of music; all in numbers. Knights, if I had known you would have let this covey of partridges sit thus long upon their knees under my signpost. I would have spread my door with coverlids. Sir Arth. Well, sir, for this your sign was removed, was it? Host. Faith, we followed the directions of the devil, Master Peter Fabel; and Smug (lord bless us!) could never stand upright since. Sir Arth. You, sir—'twas you was his minister, that married them? Sir John. Sir, to prove myself an honest man, being that I was last night in the forest stealing venison—now, sir, to have you stand my friend, if the matter should be called in question, I married your daughter to this worthy gentleman. Sir Arth. I may chance to requite you, and make your neck crack for't. Sir John. If you do, I am as resolute as my neighbour-vicar of Waltham Abbey; ahem! grass and hay! we are all mortal; let's live till we be hanged, mine host, and be merry; and there's an end. Enter Fabel. Fab. Now, knights, I enter: now my part begins. To end this difference, know, at first I knew What you intended, ere your love took flight From old Mounchensey: you, Sir Arthur Clare, Were minded to have married this sweet beauty To young Frank Jerningham: to cross this match, I us'd some pretty sleights; but I protest Such as but sat upon the skirts of art: No conjurations, nor such weighty spells As tie the soul to their performancy. These for his love, who once was my dear pupil, Have I effected. Now (methinks) 'tis strange That you, being old in wisdom, should thus knit Your forehead on this match; since reason fails, No law can curb the lover's rash attempt; Years, in resisting this, are sadly spent. Smile then upon your daughter and kind son; And let our toil to future ages prove, The Devil of Edmonton did good in love. Sir Arth. Well, 'tis in vain to cross thee, Providence: Dear son, I take thee up into my heart; Rise, daughter. Mil. This is a kind father's part. Sir John. Grass and hay! mine host, let's live till we die, and be merry; and there's an end. Sir Arth. What, is breakfast ready, mine host? Host. 'Tis, my little Hebrew. Sir Arth. Sirrah! ride straight to Cheston nunnery, Fetch thence my lady; the house, I know, By this time misses their young votary. Come, knights, let's in. Bil. I will to horse presently, sir. A plague on my lady, I shall miss a good breakfast. Smug, how chance you cut so plaguely behind, Smug? Smug. Stand away, I'll founder you else. Bil. Farewell, Smug, thou art in another element. Smug. I will be by and by; I will be Saint George again. Sir Arth. Take heed the fellow do not hurt himself. Sir Ralph. Did we not last night find two Saint Georges here? Fab. Yes, knights, this martialist was one of them. Clare. Then thus conclude your night o [Exeunt omnes. FINIS. |
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