Sir Arth. Well, 'tis in vain to cross thee, Providence:
Dear son, I take thee up into my heart;
Rise, daughter.
Mil. This is a kind father's part.
Host. Why, Sir John.[316] send for Spindle's noise[317] presently:
Ha! ere't be night, I'll serve the good Duke of Norfolk.
Sir John. Grass and hay! mine host, let's live till we die, and be merry; and there's an end.
Sir Arth. What, is breakfast ready, mine host?
Host. 'Tis, my little Hebrew.
Sir Arth. Sirrah! ride straight to Cheston nunnery,
Fetch thence my lady; the house, I know,
By this time misses their young votary.
Come, knights, let's in.
Bil. I will to horse presently, sir. A plague on my lady, I shall miss a good breakfast. Smug, how chance you cut so plaguely behind, Smug?