FRANK. —Sirra Hal, how does she hold her countenance? Well, go thy ways, if ever thou prove a Nun, I'll build an Abbey.
HARRY. —She may be a Nun; but if ever she prove an Anchoress, I'll dig her grave with my nails.
FRANK.
—To her again, mother!
HARRY.
—Hold thine own, wench!
PRIORESS.
You must read the mornings mass,
You must creep unto the Cross,
Put cold ashes on your head,
Have a hair cloth for your bed.
BILBO.
—She had rather have a man in her bed.
PRIORESS.
Bid your beads, and tell your needs,
Your holy Avies, and you Creeds;
Holy maid, this must be done,
If you mean to live a Nun.
MILLISCENT.
—The holy maid will be no Nun.
SIR ARTHUR.
Madam, we have some business of import,
And must be gone.
Wilt please you take my wife into your closet,
Who further will acquaint you with my mind;
And so, good madam, for this time adieu.
[Exeunt women.]