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, he is your father, sir, indeed; but I am sure that there's less affinity betwixt your two natures then there is between a broker and a cutpurse.
MOUNCHENSEY.
Bring my gelding, sirra.
BILBO. Well, nothing grieves me, but for the poor wench; she must now cry vale to Lobster pies, hartichokes, and all such meats of mortality; poor gentlewoman, the sign must not be in virgo any longer with her, and that me grieves full well.
Poor Milliscent
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.]
JERNINGHAM.
Farewell, dear Raymond.
HARRY CLARE.
Friend, adieu.