Lord Av.  Are all thinges redye as I gave in chardge?

Denys.  Redy, syr.

Lord Av.  Inoughe; and you deliver’d it To his owne hands?

Mayde.  I did.

Lord Av.  Howe did hee tak’t?

Mayde.  With smiles and seeminge joy.

Lord Av.  Sorrowe and shame I feare will bee the sadd end on’t.

Lady Av.  Syr, you’r troubled.

Lord Av.  I would not have you so; pray, to your rest;
You shall remove mee from all jelosyes
If you betake you to your sowndest sleeps,
And without more inquiry.

Lady Av.  Syr, remember
That all offences are not woorthy deathe: 
Fellowny, murder, treason and such lyke
Of that grosse nature maye be capitall;
Not folly, error, trespasse.

Lord Av.  You advyse well,
Lett mee advyse you lyke-wyse:  instantly
Retyre in to your chamber, without noyse
Reply or question, least part of that rage
Is bent gainst him you turne upon your self,
Which is not for your safety.

Lady Av.  Syr, good night. [Exit.[113]

Lord Av.  How goes the hower?

Denis.  Tis almost tenn.

Lord Av.  The tyme of our appointment:  you attend
Upon his knocks and give him free admittans;
Beinge entred, refer him into this place;
That doon, returne then to your Ladye’s chamber
There locke your self fast in.

Mayde.  My lorde, I shall.—­ Poore fryare, I feare theyl put thee to thy penance Before they have confest thee.

Lord Av.  Come, withdrawe; The watchwoordes not yet given.

    Enter the Fryar with a letter.

Fr. Jhon.  ’Tis her owne pen, I knwe it, synce shee sett
Her hand to establishe our foundation,
And, sweete soule, shee hath writt a second tyme
To build mee upp anewe:—­My Lord is ridd
A three dayes jorney, loose not this advantadge
But take tyme by the fore-topp.  Yes I will
By the fore-topp and topp-gallant. At the posterne
Shee to whose hand you gave your letter, Fryar,
Attends for your despatch:—­my busines
I hope shalbee despatcht then:—­Fare you well,
Fayle mee this night and ever.  I’l sooner forfett
All pleasures, hopes, preferments, with th’assurance
Of a longe lyfe blest with most happy howers,
Then this one night’s contentment.

Mayde.  Ha, who’s theire?  Fryar Jhon?

Fr. Jhon.  The same:  you, mystresse Millisent My Ladye’s gentlewoman?

Mayde.  I am the closett That treasures all her counsells.

Fr. Jhon.  Is all cleare?

Mayde.  As such a dark night can bee—­to one, I feare, That scarce will looke on daye more.

Fr. Jhon.  Where’s my lady?

Mayde.  Attends you in her chamber.