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That is once lim'd in that polluted mud!

Oh, sir Arthur, you have startled his free active spirits

With a too sharp spur for his mind to bear.

Have patience, sir: the remedy to woe

Is to leave what of force we must forgo.

MILLISCENT.

And I must take a twelve months approbation,

That in mean time this sole and private life

At the years end may fashion me a wife:

But, sweet Mounchensey, ere this year be done,

Thou'st be a frier, 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.

CLARE.

Wife, come, to horse, and huswife, make you ready;

For, if I live, I swear by this good light,

I'll see you lodged in Chesson house to night.

[Exeunt.]

MOUNTCHESNEY.

Raymond, away! Thou seest how matters fall.

Churle, hell consume thee, and thy pelf, and all!

FABELL.

Now, Master Clare, you see how matters fadge;

Your Milliscent must needs be made a Nune.

Well, sir, we are the men must ply this match:

Hold you your peace, and be a looker on,

And send her unto Chesson—where he will,

I'll send me fellows of a handful hie

Into the Cloysters where the Nuns frequent,

Shall make them skip like Does about the Dale,

And with the Lady prioress of the house

To play at leap-frog, naked in their smocks,

Until the merry wenches at their mass

Cry teehee weehee;

And tickling these mad lasses in their flanks,

They'll sprawl, and squeak, and pinch their fellow Nuns.

Be lively, boys, before the wench we lose,

I'll make the Abbas wear the Cannons hose.

[Exeunt.]

SCENE III. The same.

[Enter Harry Clare, Frank Jerningham, Peter Fabell, and

Milliscent.]

HARRY CLARE.

Spight now hath done her worst; sister, be patient.

JERNINGHAM.

Forewarned poor Raymonds company! O heaven!

When the composure of weak frailty meet

Upon this mart of durt, O, then weak love

Must in her own unhappiness be silent,

And winck on all deformities.

MILLISCENT.

Tis well:

Where's Raymond, brother? where's my dear Mounchensey?

Would we might weep together and then part;

Our sighing parle would much ease my heart.

FABELL.

Sweet beauty, fold your sorrows in the thought

Of future reconcilement: let your tears

Shew you a woman; but be no farther spent

Then from the eyes; for, sweet, experience says

That love is firm that's flattered with delays.

MILLISCENT.

Alas, sir, think you I shall ere be his?

FABELL.

As sure as parting smiles on future bliss.

Yond comes my friend: see, he hath doted

So long upon your beauty, that your want

Will with a pale retirement waste his blood;

For in true love Musicke doth sweetly dwell:

Severed, these less worlds bear within them hell.

[Enter Mounchensey.]

MOUNCHENSEY.

Harry and Francke, you are enjoined to wain

Your friendship from me; we must part: the breath

Of all advised corruption—pardon me!

Faith, I must say so;—you may think I love you;

I breath not, rougher spight do sever us;

We'll meet by stealth, sweet friend,—by stealth, you twain;

Kisses are sweetest got with struggling pain.

JERNINGHAM.

Our friendship dies not, Raymond.

MOUNCHENSEY.

Pardon me:

I am busied; I have lost my faculties,

And buried them in Milliscent's clear eyes.

MILLISCENT.

Alas, sweet Love, what shall become of me?

I must to Chesson to the Nunry,

I shall ne'er see thee more.

MOUNCHENSEY.

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.

FABELL.

Have done: your fathers may chance spy your parting.

Refuse not you by any means, good sweetness,

To go unto the Nunnery; far 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.]

MOUNCHENSEY.

Now, sirra, what's the matter?

BILBO.

Marry, you must to horse presently; that villainous old gouty churl, Sir Arthur Clare, longs till he be at the Nunry.

HARRY CLARE.

How, sir?

BILBO.

O, I cry you mercy,