Den. I had no sooner, as your Lordshipp badd,
Putt him upon his voyadge, turn'd him out,
But the ould resty stallion snuft and neighd,
And smelt, I thinke, som mare, backt (I perceavd
By the moone light) by a Fryar, in whose pursuite
Our new made horseman with his threatninge lance,
Pistolles, and rotten armor made such noyse
That th'other, frighted, clamours throughe the streetes
Nothinge but deathe and murder.
D'Av. But the sequell?— The clamour still increasethe. [Noyse.
Enter the Baker rooninge.
Baker. Oh never, never, Was seene such open mallyce!
Den. What's the busines?
Baker. Give mee but leave to breath—Oh especially in a cloyster!
Den. Out wee't, man.
Baker. The novyce Richard, to save mee a labour, Borrowed my mare to fetch meale for the mill. I knowe not howe the devill Fryar Jhon knew't, But all in armor watch't him gooinge out And after spurrs to chardge him, beeinge unarmd, 0 suer if hee cannott reatch him with his lance Hee'l speede him with his pistolls.
Denis. All's well yet. [Noyse.
Baker. This noyse hath cal'd much people from there bedds, And troobled the whole villadge.