FRIAR. Jesu benedicite!
Pity on pity,
Mercy on mercy,
Misery on misery!
O, such a sight,
As by this light,
Doth me affright?
ROB. H. Tell us the matter, prythee, holy Friar.
FRIAR. Sir Doncaster the priest and the proud Prior
Are stripp'd and wounded in the way to Bawtrey,
And if there go not speedy remedy,
They'll die, they'll die in this extremity.
ROB. H. Alas! direct us to that wretched place:
I love mine uncle, though he hateth me.
FRIAR. My weed I cast to keep them from the cold,
And Jenny, gentle girl, tore all her smock
The bloody issue of their wounds to stop.
ROB. H. Will you go with us, my good Lord of Ely?
ELY. I will, and ever praise thy perfect charity.
[Exeunt.
Enter PRINCE JOHN solus, in green: with bow and arrows.
JOHN. Why, this is somewhat like: now may I sing,
As did the Wakefield Pinder in his note—