Clowne. Easily I can, Syr. But for another peice of the same stampe, I can bringe you to heare him, to feele him, to smell, to tast him, and to feede upon him your whole fyve senses.
Thomas. There’s for thee, though
I have no hope at all
To finde in France what I in Florens seeke.
And though my brother have no child alyve,
As longe synce lost when I was rob’d of myne,
Yet for the namesake, to my other travells
I’l add this little toyle, though purposeles.
I have about mee letters of Import
Dyrected to a merchant of that name
For whose sake (beeinge one to mee intyred)
I only crave to see the gentleman.
Clowne. Beleeve mee Syr I never love to jest, with those that beforehand deale with me in earnest. Will you follow mee?
Thomas. Prooves hee my brother, and his
Lost by my want of care, (which canott bee
All reasons well considered) and I so happy
To bringe him newes of a recovered state,
Who to his foes so longe hathe been a prey,
I’d count my monthes and years but from this day.
Enter at one door D’Averne,
and Dennis with the Fryar armed.
At the other Fryar Richard and the Baker.
D’Averne. So nowe all’s fitt, the daylight’s not yet broake; Mount him and lock him in the saddle fast, Then turn him forthe the gates.
Dennis. Pray, Syr, your hand to rayse him.
D’Av. Nowe lett him post, whether his fate shall guide him.
Ent. Rich. and Baker.
Baker. The mare’s ready.
Fr. R. Only the key to ope the cloyster gate, Then all is as it shoold be.
Baker. Tak’t, there tis. But make hast, good Fryar Richard; you will else Have no new bredd to dinner.
Fr. R. Feare not, baker; I’l proove her mettall. Thus I back one mare Least I shoold ryde another. [Exit.
Baker. It is the kindest novyce of my consciens That ere woare hood or coole.
[A noyse within. Trampling of Horses.
What noyse is that? now by the Abbot’s leave
I will looke out and see.
Enter Averne and Dennis.
D’Av. Howe nowe? the newes? The cause of that strange uprore?
Den. Strange indeed, But what th’event will bee, I cannott guesse.
D’Av. Howe is it, speake.
Den. I had no sooner, as your Lordshipp
Putt him upon his voyadge, turn’d him out,
But the ould resty stallion snuft and neighd,
And smelt, I thinke, som mare, backt (I perceavd
By the moone light) by a Fryar, in whose pursuite
Our new made horseman with his threatninge lance,
Pistolles, and rotten armor made such noyse
That th’other, frighted, clamours throughe the streetes
Nothinge but deathe and murder.