Pal.  Then lyve, my deere Scribonia, synce I am only Spar’d to partake with thee newe miseryes.

Scrib.  Scarce can I bee perswaded you are shee:  But, bee yt but her shadowe, give mee leave For her remembrance to imbrace it thus.

Palest.  These armes at once locke all my lyvinge hopes In my restored Scribonia.

Scrib.  Nowe I perceave My comfort is not meare imaginary But reall and effectuall.  Lyve you then?

Pal.  To triumphe in your safety.

Scrib.  Possible
That mongst these desert unfrequented rocks
Thou can imadgine such a thing can be
As that which you call safety?

Pal.  Yes, Scribonia,
And comfort too; for, see, I spy a villadge,
A maner and a fayre built monastery,
Just at the foott of this descendeinge hill. 
And where, if not amongst religious men,
Shoold we find that’s calld charity?

Scrib.  Thether, then: 
Lett[75] us make hast with all the speede we can: 
Fyre at the least I hope it [is?] well assured,
Besydes releiffe and harbor.

Pal.  Can you begge?

Scrib.  What will not rude necessity compell
Distressed folke to doo?  We’ll not doo’t basely,
For beinge brought upp to musick and to sing,
Demandinge in that kind there charity,
And they perceivinge us much better bred
Then these our present fortunes might deserve,
May move in them compassions.

Pal.  Lett’s retyre
To the backe gate then, there complane our wants
And that which others doo with impudence
Lett us in shame and blushes.

Scrib.  Som sweete echo
Speake from these walls and answer to our wants,
And eather lend som comfort to our grieffs
Or send us hence dispayringe and asham’d.

[They go in.

Pal. Oh charity where art thou fled, And nowe how longe hast thou been dead?

Answer within.  Oh many many many hundred yeares

Scrib.  In villadge, borrough, towne or citty
Remaines there yet no grace, no pitty?

Answ.  Not in sighes, not in want, not in teares.

Pal.  Cold comfort in this answer; but proceede.

Above. we see a threatninge skye.

Answ.  Beelowe the winds and gusts blowe hye,
And all all to fright hence this same juell.

Scrib.  The lightninges blast, the thunders cracke,
The billows menace nought save wracke.

Answ.  And yet man is then these much more crewell.

Pal.  Unless my judgment quite miscarry,
Shee may lyve in som monastery.

Answ.  Tis a place too that was fyrst assigned her.

Scrib.  If not amongst religious men,
Yett where, where shall wee seeks her then?

Answ.  Yet even there, there, you scarce scarce can find her.

Pal.  If chastity and Innocens tryde
Have boathe escaped wind and tyde—­