Hild. And it floateth on nothing?
Wiz. Yea, yea, wouldst thou not learn? Wouldst thou not listen?
Hild. Ha.
Ab. Thou seest he hath a devil. He honoureth not even thee, Most Holy.
Wiz. (To Hild.) Wilt thou not listen? Art thou also as these fools? An age of fools! An age of fools! Macro, macro, I am the centre. (Falls to calculating anew.)
Hild. Peace, peace, Sirrah, I would hear thee agen on this strange matter. Thou wilt stay here. (To the Ab. and Monks.) And ye back to your monastery, and do as he saith, feed less, drink less, toil more, sleep less, and go not with the women, and I will remove your curse. Now begone!
Ab. and Monks. (Bowing out.) O holy father, we be much accursed!
Wiz. (Shakes his fist at them.) Acro, macro. (They flee in great terror.)
Enter Peter.
Pet. More woes, more woes, more woes, another woman!