Fr. Jhon. Shall we remove them Into the cloyster?
Fr. Rich. Tis agaynst our oath On any, though the great’st, extremity To addmitt women thether.
Abbot. That I knowe:
Yet in som out-office see them chear’d,
Want nothinge that the cloyster can affourd.
Theire bewtyes, though my eye be bleynd at them,
Deserve no lesse; I looke on theire distresse
And that I pitty. Ech one lend a hand
To take off from theire present misery
And ease theire tender shoulders; when they are cheer’d
And better comforted, I’l finde occatione
To enquire further from them.
Pal. Heaven be as kind To you as you to us!
Abb. Feare not fayre damselles: This place, though not within the monastery, Yet stands within the cloysters previledge And shallbee unto you a sanctuary.
Scrib. No other wee expect it.
Abb. Guide them in: [Bell ring. Bewty and youthe to pitty ’tis no sinne.
The bell ringes to mattens.
Enter the Lord de Averne
and his Lady. Dennis and others.
Fr. Jhon. Harke, the bell ringes to mattens.
Fr. Rich. See withall
Our noble patron with his lovely lady
Prepare for theire devotion. Nowe, Friar Jhon,
Your letcherous eye is conninge.
Fr. Jhon. I knowe my place.
Abbott. Way for our noble founder!
L. Aberne. Morrowe, father; So to the rest of all the brotherhood.
[The quire and musick;
the fryars make a lane
with ducks and obeysance.
Voyces. Te tuosque semper, oh semper beamus, Et salvos vos venisse, o venisse gaudeamus.
Fr. Jhon. Good daye to our fayre foundresse!
Lady. Mercy, Fryar Jhon; Above the rest you are still dutifull, For which wee kindly thanke you.
[Exeunt: manet Jhon.
Fr. Jhon. Kindly thanke you!
Nay, smyld withall! allthough that I have more
Then a monthes mind to these younge harletryes
Yet heares the grownd on which I fyrst must build
And ryse my fortunes many steepes hye.
Nay, I perhapps, ere they can drye there smocks,
Will putt th’affayre in motion, whyle these are
Att solleme mattens. I’l take pen and wryte,
And sett my mind downe in so quaint a strayne
Shall make her laughe and tickle, whylst I laughe
And tickle with the thought on’t, still presuminge
These lookes, these smyles, these favours, this sweete language
Could never breathe, butt have theire byrthe from love.
But how to ha’tt delivered? there’s the dowbt.
Tush I have plott for that too; hee, no questione,
That sett mee on to compasse this my will,
May when the up-shoote comes assist mee still.