Abbott. Way for our noble founder!
L. Aberne. Morrowe, father; So to the rest of all the brotherhood.
[The quire and musick; the fryars make a lane
with ducks and obeysance.
Voyces. Te tuosque semper, oh semper beamus, Et salvos vos venisse, o venisse gaudeamus.
Fr. Jhon. Good daye to our fayre foundresse!
Lady. Mercy, Fryar Jhon; Above the rest you are still dutifull, For which wee kindly thanke you.
[Exeunt: manet Jhon.
Fr. Jhon. Kindly thanke you!
Nay, smyld withall! allthough that I have more
Then a monthes mind[77] to these younge harletryes
Yet heares the grownd on which I fyrst must build
And ryse my fortunes many steepes[78] hye.
Nay, I perhapps, ere they can drye there smocks,
Will putt th'affayre in motion, whyle these are
Att solleme mattens. I'l take pen and wryte,
And sett my mind downe in so quaint a strayne
Shall make her laughe and tickle, whylst I laughe
And tickle with the thought on't, still presuminge
These lookes, these smyles, these favours, this sweete language
Could never breathe, butt have theire byrthe from love.
But how to ha'tt delivered? there's the dowbt.
Tush I have plott for that too; hee, no questione,
That sett mee on to compasse this my will,
May when the up-shoote comes assist mee still.
[Exit.