Clare. 
She is the last is left me to bestow,
And her I mean to dedicate to God.

Mountchensey. 
You do, sir?

Clare. 
Sir, sir, I do, she is mine own.

Mountchensey. 
And pity she is so! 
Damnation dog thee and thy wretched pelf!

[Aside.]

Clare. 
Not thou, Mountchensey, shalt bestow my child.

Mountchensey. 
Neither shouldst thou bestow her where thou mean’st.

Clare. 
What wilt thou do?

Mountchensey. 
No matter, let that be;
I will do that, perhaps, shall anger thee: 
Thou hast wrongd my love, and, by God’s blessed Angell,
Thou shalt well know it.

Clare. 
Tut, brave not me.

Mountchensey. 
Brave thee, base Churle! were’t not for man-hood sake—­
I say no more, but that there be some by
Whose blood is hotter then ours is,
Which being stird might make us both repent
This foolish meeting.  But, Harry Clare,
Although thy father have abused my friendship,
Yet I love thee, I do, my noble boy,
I do, yfaith.

Lady. 
Aye, do, do! 
Fill the world with talk of us, man, man;
I never lookt for better at your hands.

Fabell. 
I hop’d your great experience and your years
Would have proved patience rather to your soul,
Then with this frantique and untamed passion
To whet their skeens; and, but for that
I hope their friendships are too well confirmd,
And their minds temperd with more kindly heat,
Then for their froward parents soars
That they should break forth into publique brawles—­
How ere the rough hand of th’ untoward world
Hath moulded your proceedings in this matter,
Yet I am sure the first intent was love: 
Then since the first spring was so sweet and warm,
Let it die gently; ne’er kill it with a scorn.

Ray. 
O thou base world, how leprous is that soul
That is once lim’d in that polluted mud! 
Oh, sir Arthur, you have startled his free active spirits
With a too sharp spur for his mind to bear. 
Have patience, sir:  the remedy to woe
Is to leave what of force we must forgo.

Milliscent. 
And I must take a twelve months approbation,
That in mean time this sole and private life
At the years end may fashion me a wife: 
But, sweet Mounchensey, ere this year be done,
Thou’st be a frier, if that I be a Nun. 
And, father, ere young Jerningham’s I’ll be,
I will turn mad to spite both him and thee.

Clare. 
Wife, come, to horse, and huswife, make you ready;
For, if I live, I swear by this good light,
I’ll see you lodged in Chesson house to night.

[Exeunt.]

MOUNTCHESNEY. 
Raymond, away!  Thou seest how matters fall. 
Churle, hell consume thee, and thy pelf, and all!