L. Clare. Ay, do, do: fill all the world with talk of us, man; man, I never looked for better at your hands.
Fab. I hop'd your great experience and your years
Would have prov'd patience rather to your soul,
Than with this frantic and untamed passion
To whet their skeins;[278] and, but for that
I hope their friendships are too well confirm'd.
And their minds temper'd with more kindly heat,
Than for their forward parent's frowardness,
That they should break forth into public brawls.
Howe'er the rough hand of the untoward world
Hath moulded your proceedings in this matter,
Yet I am sure the first intent was love:
Then since the first spring was so sweet and warm,
Let it die gently: ne'er kill it with scorn.
Ray. O, thou base world! how leprous is that soul,
That is once lim'd in that polluted mud!
O Sir Arthur! you have startled his free active spirit
With a too sharp spur for his mind to bear.
Have patience, sir; the remedy to woe
Is to leave that of force we must forego.
Mil. And I must take a twelvemonth's approbation,
That in the meantime this sole and private life
At the year's end may fashion me a wife.
But, sweet Mounchensey, ere this year be done,
Thou'st be a friar, if that I be a nun.
And, father, ere young Jerningham's I'll be.
I will turn mad to spite both him and thee. [Aside.
Clare. Wife, come to horse; and, huswife, make you ready:
For if I live, I swear by this good light,
I'll see you lodg'd in Cheston House to-night. [Exeunt.
O. Moun. Raymond, away; thou see'st how matters fall.
Churl, hell consume thee, and thy pelf and all!
Fab. Now, Master Clare, you see how matters fadge;[279]
Your Millicent must needs be made a nun.
Well, sir, we are the men must ply the match:
Hold you your peace, and be a looker-on:
And send her unto Cheston, when[280] he will,
I'll send me fellows of a handful high
Into the cloisters, where the nuns frequent,
Shall make them skip like does about the dale;
And make the lady prioress of the house
To play at leap-frog naked in her smock,[281]
Until the merry wenches at their mass
Cry teehee, weehee;
And tickling these mad lasses in their flanks,
Shall sprawl and squeak, and pinch their fellow-nuns.
Be lively, boys, before the wench we lose,
I'll make the abbess wear the canon's hose. [Exeunt.
Enter Harry Clare, Frank Jerningham. Peter Fabel, and Millicent.
H. Clare. Spite now hath done her worst; sister, be patient.
Jer. Forewarn'd poor Raymond's company! O heaven!
When the composure of weak frailty meet
Upon this mart of dirt, O, then weak love
Must in her own unhappiness be silent,
And wink on all deformities.