Fabell. 
Now, Master Clare, you see how matters fadge;
Your Milliscent must needs be made a Nune. 
Well, sir, we are the men must ply this match: 
Hold you your peace, and be a looker on,
And send her unto Chesson—­where he will,
I’ll send me fellows of a handful hie
Into the Cloysters where the Nuns frequent,
Shall make them skip like Does about the Dale,
And with the Lady prioress of the house
To play at leap-frog, naked in their smocks,
Until the merry wenches at their mass
Cry teehee weehee;
And tickling these mad lasses in their flanks,
They’ll sprawl, and squeak, and pinch their fellow Nuns. 
Be lively, boys, before the wench we lose,
I’ll make the Abbas wear the Cannons hose.

[Exeunt.]

Scene III.  The same.

[Enter Harry Clare, Frank Jerningham, Peter Fabell, and Milliscent.]

Harry Clare. 
Spight now hath done her worst; sister, be patient.

Jerningham. 
Forewarned poor Raymonds company!  O heaven! 
When the composure of weak frailty meet
Upon this mart of durt, O, then weak love
Must in her own unhappiness be silent,
And winck on all deformities.

Milliscent. 
Tis well: 
Where’s Raymond, brother? where’s my dear Mounchensey? 
Would we might weep together and then part;
Our sighing parle would much ease my heart.

Fabell. 
Sweet beauty, fold your sorrows in the thought
Of future reconcilement:  let your tears
Shew you a woman; but be no farther spent
Then from the eyes; for, sweet, experience says
That love is firm that’s flattered with delays.

Milliscent. 
Alas, sir, think you I shall ere be his?

Fabell. 
As sure as parting smiles on future bliss. 
Yond comes my friend:  see, he hath doted
So long upon your beauty, that your want
Will with a pale retirement waste his blood;
For in true love Musicke doth sweetly dwell: 
Severed, these less worlds bear within them hell.

[Enter Mounchensey.]

Mounchensey. 
Harry and Francke, you are enjoined to wain
Your friendship from me; we must part:  the breath
Of all advised corruption—­pardon me! 
Faith, I must say so;—­you may think I love you;
I breath not, rougher spight do sever us;
We’ll meet by stealth, sweet friend,—­by stealth, you twain;
Kisses are sweetest got with struggling pain.

Jerningham. 
Our friendship dies not, Raymond.

Mounchensey. 
Pardon me: 
I am busied; I have lost my faculties,
And buried them in Milliscent’s clear eyes.

Milliscent. 
Alas, sweet Love, what shall become of me? 
I must to Chesson to the Nunry,
I shall ne’er see thee more.

Mounchensey. 
How, sweet? 
I’ll be thy votary, we’ll often meet: 
This kiss divides us, and breathes soft adieu,—­
This be a double charm to keep both true.