With these shee-chatteyles; putt this night to sea—­
England they saye is full of whormasters;
There will bee vent for such comoditye,
There strompett them where they (you saye) weare born,
Else you in Spayne may sell them to the stewes,
Venyce or any place of Italy;
They are everywhere good chaffer.  If not these,
What saye you to Morocho, Fesse, Algiers? 
Faith these are wares in all parts vendible,
No matter thoughe to Turke and infidell,
So itt bringe gayne and profitt.

Mildewe.  Lett me hugg thee
For this, deare frend; heareafter I will style thee
My better genius; thou hast monied mee in this,
Nay landed me, made me thy braynes executor,
And putt mee in a lardge possession. 
Go hyre a barke.

Sarlab.  I shall.

Mildewe.  And instantly.

Sarlab.  I shall.

Mildewe.  Ere night wee’l putt into a sea
No larger then our full stretcht consciences. 
Lett mee once more Imbrace thee.
          
                                       [Exeunt.

SCENA 2.

Enter an Abbot with his covent[59] of Fryars, amongst
them Fryar Jhon, and Fryar Ritchard.

Abbot.  As I have heare priority of place, Boathe by our patrons favour and your voyce, So give me leave to arbitrate amongst you.

Fr. Jhon.  Without respect of person wee acknowledge you.  Our prince and cheiff.

Fr. Rich.  And to your fatherly And grave advyse humbly submitt our selves.

Abbot.  Knwe then in this small covent, which consysts
Only of 12 in nomber, fryars I meane
And us the Abbat, I have fownde amongst you
Many and grosse abuses; yet for the present
I will insist on fewe.  Quarrells, debates,
Whisperinge, supplantinges, private calumnyes,
These ought not bee in such a brotherhood. 
Of these Fryar Jhon and thou Fryar Richard are
Accused to bee most guilty, ever jarring
And opposite to peace.

Fr. Jhon.  The faults in him.

Fr. Rich.  As in all other thinges, so even in this Hee still is apt to wronge mee.

Fr. Jhon.  Hee that fyrst gives th’occation, fyrst complaines:  It ever was his fashion.

Fr. Rich.  Never myne:  I appeale to the whole covent.

Abbot.  Mallyce rooted,
I finde, is woondrous hard to bee supprest. 
But knwe where consell and advise preveyle not,
The fayrest meanes that I can wourk your peace,
I’l take upon mee my authority,
And where I finde in you the least contempt
I shall severely punishe.

Fr. Jhon.  I submitt.

Fr. Rich.  I yeeld myself to your grave fatherhood.