CLARE.
How doth my Lady? are you not weary, Madam?
Come hither, I must talk in private with you;
My daughter Milliscent must not over-hear.
MILLISCENT.
Aye, whispring; pray God it tend my good!
Strange fear assails my heart, usurps my blood.
CLARE.
You know our meeting with the knight Mounchensey
Is to assure our daughter to his heir.
DORCAS.
Tis, without question.
CLARE.
Two tedious winters have past o'er, since first
These couple lov'd each other, and in passion
Glued first their naked hands with youthful moisture—
Just so long, on my knowledge.
DORCAS.
And what of this?
CLARE.
This morning should my daughter lose her name,
And to Mounchenseys house convey our arms,
Quartered within his scutcheon; th' affiance, made
Twist him and her, this morning should be sealed.
DORCAS.
I know it should.
CLARE.
But there are crosses, wife; here's one in Waltham,
Another at the Abbey, and the third
At Cheston; and tis ominous to pass
Any of these without a pater-noster.
Crosses of love still thwart this marriage,
Whilst that we two, like spirits, walk in night
About those stony and hard hearted plots.
MILLISCENT.
O God, what means my father?