Fabell. 
Have done:  your fathers may chance spy your parting. 
Refuse not you by any means, good sweetness,
To go unto the Nunnery; far from hence
Must we beget your love’s sweet happiness. 
You shall not stay there long; your harder bed
Shall be more soft when Nun and maid are dead.

[Enter Bilbo.]

Mounchensey. 
Now, sirra, what’s the matter?

Bilbo. 
Marry, you must to horse presently; that villainous old
gouty churl, Sir Arthur Clare, longs till he be at the Nunry.

Harry Clare. 
How, sir?

Bilbo.  O, I cry you mercy, he is your father, sir, indeed; but I am sure that there’s less affinity betwixt your two natures then there is between a broker and a cutpurse.

Mounchensey. 
Bring my gelding, sirra.

Bilbo.  Well, nothing grieves me, but for the poor wench; she must now cry vale to Lobster pies, hartichokes, and all such meats of mortality; poor gentlewoman, the sign must not be in virgo any longer with her, and that me grieves full well.

        Poor Milliscent
        Must pray and repent: 
O fatal wonder! 
She’ll now be no fatter,
Love must not come at her
Yet she shall be kept under.

[Exit.]

Jerningham. 
Farewell, dear Raymond.

Harry Clare. 
Friend, adieu.

Milliscent. 
Dear sweet,
No joy enjoys my heart till we next meet.

[Exeunt.]

Fabell. 
Well, Raymond, now the tide of discontent
Beats in thy face; but, er’t be long, the wind
Shall turn the flood.  We must to Waltham abbey,
And as fair Milliscent in Cheston lives,
A most unwilling Nun, so thou shalt there
Become a beardless Novice; to what end,
Let time and future accidents declare: 
Taste thou my sleights, thy love I’ll only share.

Mounchensey. 
Turn friar?  Come, my good Counsellor, let’s go,
Yet that disguise will hardly shroud my woe.

[Exeunt.]

ACT III.

Scene I. Cheston Priory.

[Enter the Prioress of Cheston, with a Nun or two, Sir Arthur Clare, Sir Raph Jerningham, Henry and Francke, the Lady, and Bilbo, with Millisent.]

Lady Clare. 
Madam,
The love unto this holy sisterhood,
And our confirmd opinion of your zeal
Hath truly won us to bestow our Child
Rather on this then any neighbouring Cell.

Prioress. 
        Jesus daughter, Mary’s child,
        Holy matron, woman mild,
        For thee a mass shall still be said,
        Every sister drop a bead;
        And those again succeeding them
        For you shall sing a Requiem.

Frank.  The wench is gone, harry; she is no more a woman of this world:  mark her well, she looks like a Nun already.  What thinkst on her?