Brun. Yea, that I will, thou Wreck of former perfection. If any misguided person of that unfortunate sex be so seized by distraction as to make formidable attack upon thy classic person, she doth so on her peril, I promise thee, old much-afflicted, my hand upon it. Be the bottle finished? (A knocking is heard without.)
Wast. What be that sound? ’Tis she, ’tis she, at last! O me, O me, what will I do? (Gets behind Brun.) Brun! Brother! wilt thou protect me?
Brun. Confusion take thee, Wast, now be a man.
Wast. Yea, yea, I be a man, that be my sorrow, ah, oh, what sh—all I do? (Tries to hide himself in his cowl.)
Enter other monks in great confusion.
All. What be that noise? what be th—at no—ise?
One M. (Peers through the wicket and starts back in horror.) ’Tis a—oh blessed Peter, ’tis a woman!
All. What shall we do? O blessed Peter! what shall we do?
Wast. I am undone, undone, my fatal beauty assails me even here.