Mountchensey. 
O Milliscent, tis I.

Milliscent. 
My heart misgives me; I should know that voice. 
You? who are you?  The holy virgin bless me! 
Tell me your name:  you shall, ere you confess me.

Mountchensey. 
Mountchensey, thy true friend.

Milliscent. 
My Raymond, my dear heart! 
Sweet life, give leave to my distracted soul,
To wake a little from this swoon of joy. 
By what means camst thou to assume this shape?

Mountchensey. 
By means of Peter Fabell, my kind Tutor,
Who in the habit of Friar Hildersham,
Franke Jerningham’s old friend and confessor,
Helped me to act the part of priestly novice,
Plotted by Franke, by Fabell and my self,
And so delivered to Sir Arthur Clare,
Who brought me here unto the Abbey gate,
To be his Nun-made daughter’s visitor.

Milliscent. 
You are all sweet traitors to my poor old father. 
O my dear life!  I was a dream’t to night
That, as I was a praying in mine Psalter,
There came a spirit unto me as I kneeled,
And by his strong persuasions tempted me
To leave this Nunry; and me thought
He came in the most glorious Angel shape,
That mortal eye did ever look upon. 
Ha, thou art sure that spirit, for there’s no form
Is in mine eye so glorious as thine own.

Mountchensey. 
O thou Idolatress, that dost this worship
To him whose likeness is but praise of thee! 
Thou bright unsetting star, which through this veil,
For very envy, mak’st the Sun look pale!

Milliscent. 
Well, visitor, lest that perhaps my mother
Should think the Friar too strickt in his decrees,
I this confess to my sweet ghostly father: 
If chast pure love be sin, I must confess,
I have offended three years now with thee.

Mountchensey. 
But do you yet repent you of the same?

Milliscent. 
Yfaith, I cannot.

Mountchensey. 
Nor will I absolve thee
Of that sweet sin, though it be venial;
Yet have the penance of a thousand kisses,
And I enjoin you to this pilgrimage: 
That in the evening you bestow your self
Here in the walk near to the willow ground,
Where I’ll be ready both with men and horse
To wait your coming, and convey you hence
Unto a lodge I have in Enfield chase. 
No more reply, if that you yield consent—­
I see more eyes upon our stay are bent.

Milliscent. 
Sweet life, farewell!  Tis done:  let that suffice;
What my tongue fails, I send thee by mine eyes.

[Exit]

[Enter Fabell, Clare, and Jerningham.]

Jerningham. 
Now, Visitor, how does this new made Nun?

Clare. 
Come, come, how does she, noble Capouchin?

Mountchensey. 
She may be poor in spirit, but for the flesh,
Tis fat and plump, boys.  Ah, rogues, there is
A company of girls would turn you all Friars.