Abbot. Not yet?
Hildreth. No, Abbot.
[Enter Salerne.]
Salerne. Has he come?
Hildreth. Not yet.
Salerne. What says your mercury, Abbot?
Abbot. Zero, zero!
Salerne. I think myself the play will fail.
Hildreth. I don't.
The naivety, novelty, audacity;
The this, the that that people prattle of;
The Bishop's name, the scandal, and the cry,
The noise of the event will bring it off.
Abbot. I doubt it; and I think Sir Tristram scents
Disaster in the air.