Tread.  Beleeve mee nowe, I do not blame my frende
To fishe in trobled streames for such a pearle,
Or digge in black mowled for so ritch a myne;
But to redeeme a chast and inocent sowle
Forthe from the fierye jawes of lust and hell,
Exprest a most comended charitye. 
What second bewtyes that ... frend,
That tremblinge flyes from his infectious ills
To patronise her youth and inocence
Beneathe that goode man’s goodnes—­

Raph.  Alyke suffers
With her in all distresses, lyke in years,
In vertue, no way differing of our nation;
Who knowes but neare all yee too?

Tread.  I feele somthinge
Growinge on mee, I know not howe to style,
Pitty or love, synce it hath tast of boathe. 
And sinne itt weare such parity in all thinges,
Age, mindes, wrecks, bondadge, pursiutes, injuryes
Shoold nowe bee separate; the one be freede
The t’other left in durance, for the want
And pious tender of so smalle a somme. 
I somwhat have in purpose.

Raph.  Dragge them boathe Before the magistrate.

Sarlab.  Mee? wherefore? why?

Godf.  As his abettor and ill counseller:  One would have burnt the villadge, and the other Threatned to fyar the cloyster.

Raph.  Boathe acts capitall And worthy seveare censure.

Mild.  Though thou pleedst interest
In waye of earnest in Palestra, yet
Robb mee not quite, give me the tother backe,
My only portion left me by the sea
And stock to sett upp trade by.

Scrib.  Rather torture mee With any violent deathe.

Tread.  Leive them in trust And chardge of this grave reverent gentleman, Untill you heire the sentence of the coort.

Ashb.  I willingly accept theire patronadge:  Heere att my howse they shall have meate and harbour.

Raph.  Nobly spoke:  Meane tyme hale these to’th coort.

Mild.  My Palestra, What? not one woord of pitye?

Raph.  Stopp his mouthe.

Mild.  My Scribonia, Wilt thou intreate them neather?

Tread.  Tyme’s but trifled; Away with them to justyce!

Mild.  Take my skinne then, Synce nothinge else is left mee.

Clown.  That’s rotten allredy and will neather make goodd leather nor parchement ... theire.

[Exeunt.

Ashb.  Com, damsalls, followe mee where I shall leade:  I have a cross wyfe at home I tell you that, But one that I presume will not bee jealous Of too such harmeles sowles.

Pal.  You are to us A patron and defender.

Scrib.  Bounde unto you Not as an host but father.

[Exeunt.

SCENA 3.

Enter the Lord de Averne, his Lady,
Dennis and the waytinge mayde.