Answ.  Yet oh why should the land, land these cherish?

Scrib.  Of whome even billowes have a care,
Whom seas preserve, whom tempests spare—­

Answ.  Yet these these amongst men may perishe._

Pal.  Uncharitable echo! from a place
Of pure devotion canst thou answer that? 
If not in these religious monasteries,
In what place can we find could charity?

Scrib.  Where ere wee meete her shee is lyke our selfes, Bare, without harbor, weake and comfortles.

    Enter Fryer John.

Fr. Jhon.  What singeinge beggers were those at the gate That would so early rowse our charity, Before it was half styrringe or awake?

    Enter Fryer Richard.

I thinke I answerd them in such a way
As I beleeve scarce pleas’d them.

Fr. Rich.  What sweete musick Was that at the back gate hath cald mee upp Somwhat before my hower?

Fr. Jhon.  Morrow, fryar Richard: 
Howe did you lyke our last night’s buffetinge? 
Whilst all the rest of our fraternity
In feare of that greate tempest weare att prayers,
Wee too pickt out that tyme of least suspition
And in the orchard hand to hand weare att it.

Fr. Rich.  Tis trew for blooddy noses; and, Fryar Jhon,
As you lyke that which is allredy past
So chalendge mee hereafter.  But whence cam
Those sweete and delicate voyces?

Fr. Jhon.  I bare part In theire sadd quire though none of these yet knw’t.  But peace:  our Father Abbat.

    Enter the Abbot with other fryars.

Abbott.  Morrow, soonns,
An early blessinge on you, if as the larke
Rysen beetymes still to salute the soon,
So your devotion pluckes you from your bedds
Beefore your hower unto your orisons. 
Did you not heare a musicall complaynt
Of women that in sadd and mournefull tones
Bewayld theire late disasters, harshly answerd
By a churlish echo?

Fr. Jhon.  Som such thinge wee heard.

Fr. Rich.  The noates still persist with mee.

Pal.  There appeares
In his grave lookes bothe zeele and charity;
Letts to his sight boldly expose ourselfes. 
Hayle, reverent father!

Abbot.  What are you poore soules Thus wett and wether-bitt?

Scrib.  Ere you demand Further from us, letts tast your Christian charity, Som fyare, som harbor, least ere our sadd tale Bee fully tould wee perishe.

Abbot.  Why, whence came you?

Pal.  From sea; our shipp last night in the great storme Cast on these rocks and split; this the fyrst place Exposed unto our eyes to begge releiff.  But oh I faynt.

Abbot.  Some[76] faggotts instantly: 
Hott brothes, hott water for them, and warme cloathes. 
Whome the high powers miraculously preserve,
Whome even the merciles waves have borne ashore,
Shall we soe sinke a land?  Even wee our selfes
That lyve and eate by others charity,
To others shall not wee bee charitable? 
All succor, all supply that can be given,
They from our hands shall tast.