Aur. We shall obey you, madam; but that we may do it with less regret, we hope you will give these ladies leave to accompany us.

Soph. They shall. 
And, nieces, for myself, I only ask you
To justify my conduct to the world,
That none may think I have betrayed a trust,
But freed you from a tyranny.

Lau. Our duty binds us to acknowledge it.

Cam. And our gratitude to witness it.

Vio. With a holy and lasting remembrance of your favour.

Fred. And it shall be my care, either by reason to bend your uncle’s will, or, by my father’s interest, to force your dowry from his hands.

Ben. [To AUR.] Pray, sir, let us make haste over these walls again; these gardens are unlucky to me; I have lost my reputation of music in one of them, and of wit in the other.

Aur. [To LAU.] Now, Laura, you may take your choice betwixt the two Benito’s, and consider whether you had rather he should serenade you in the garden, or I in bed to-night.

Lau. You may be sure I shall give sentence for Benito; for the effect of your serenading would be to make me pay the music nine months hence.

Hip. [To ASCA.] You see, brother, here’s a general gaol-delivery:  there has been a great deal of bustle and disturbance in the cloister to-night; enough to distract a soul which is given up, like me, to contemplation:  and therefore, if you think fit, I could even be content to retire, with you, into the world; and, by way of penance, to marry you; which, as husbands and wives go now, is a greater mortification than a nunnery.

Asca. No, sister; if you love me, keep to your monastery:  I’ll come now and then to the grate, and beg you a recreation.  But I know myself so well, that if I had you one twelvemonth in the world, I should run myself into a cloister, to be rid of you.

Soph. Nieces, once more farewell.  Adieu, Lucretia:  My wishes and my prayers attend you all.

Luc. to Fred. I am so fearful,
That, though I gladly run to your embraces,
Yet, venturing in the world a second time,
Methinks I put to sea in a rough storm,
With shipwrecks round about me.

Fred. My dear, be kinder to yourself and me,
And let not fear fright back our coming joys;
For we, at length, stand reconciled to fate: 
And now to fear, when to such bliss we move,
Were not to doubt our fortune, but our love. [Exeunt.

EPILOGUE.

Some have expected, from our bills to-day,
To find a satire in our poet’s play. 
The zealous route from Coleman-street did run,
To see the story of the Friar and Nun;
Or tales, yet more ridiculous to hear,
Vouched by their vicar of ten pounds a-year,—­
Of Nuns, who did against temptation pray,
And discipline laid on the pleasant way: