Scrib. Where ere wee meete her shee is lyke our selfes, Bare, without harbor, weake and comfortles.
Enter Fryer John.
Fr. Jhon. What singeinge beggers were those at the gate That would so early rowse our charity, Before it was half styrringe or awake?
Enter Fryer Richard.
I thinke I answerd them in such a way
As I beleeve scarce pleas'd them.
Fr. Rich. What sweete musick Was that at the back gate hath cald mee upp Somwhat before my hower?
Fr. Jhon. Morrow, fryar Richard:
Howe did you lyke our last night's buffetinge?
Whilst all the rest of our fraternity
In feare of that greate tempest weare att prayers,
Wee too pickt out that tyme of least suspition
And in the orchard hand to hand weare att it.
Fr. Rich. Tis trew for blooddy noses; and, Fryar Jhon,
As you lyke that which is allredy past
So chalendge mee hereafter. But whence cam
Those sweete and delicate voyces?
Fr. Jhon. I bare part In theire sadd quire though none of these yet knw't. But peace: our Father Abbat.
Enter the Abbot with other fryars.