[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.