Fab. Have done: your fathers may chance spy your parting.
Refuse not you by any means, good sweetness,
To go into the nunnery, for from hence
Must we beget your love's sweet happiness.
You shall not stay there long: your harder bed
Shall be more soft, when nun and maid are dead.
Enter Bilbo.
Moun. Now, sirrah, what's the matter?
Bil. Marry, you must to horse presently; that villanous old gouty churl, Sir Arthur Clare, longs till he be at the nunnery.
H. Clare. How, sir?
Bil.[285] O, I cry you mercy, he is your father, sir, indeed; but I am sure that there's less affinity betwixt your two natures than there is between a broker and a cutpurse.
Moun. Bring me my gelding, sirrah.
Bil. Well, nothing grieves me, but for the poor wench; she must now cry vale to lobster-pies, artichokes, and all such meats of mortality. Poor gentlewoman! the sign must not be in virgo any longer with her, and that me grieves: farewell.
Poor Millicent
Must pray and repent:
O fatal wonder!
She'll now be no fatter,
Love must not come at her,
Yet she shall be kept under. [Exit.