Clare. 
Is’t even so?

Milliscent. 
With pardon therefore we intreat your smiles;
Love thwarted turns itself to thousand wiles.

Clare. 
Young Master Jerningham, were you an actor
In your own love’s abuse?

Jerningham. 
My thoughts, good sir,
Did labour seriously unto this end,
To wrong my self, ere I’d abuse my friend.

Host.
He speaks like a Batchelor of musicke, all in numbers. 
Knights, if I had known you would have let this covy of
Patridges sit thus long upon their knees under my sign
post, I would have spread my door with old Coverlids.

Sir Arthur. 
Well, sir, for this your sign was removed, was it?

Host.
Faith, we followed the directions of the devill, Master Peter
Fabell; and Smug, Lord bless us, could never stand upright
since.

Sir Arthur. 
You, sir, twas you was his minister that married them?

Sir John.  Sir, to prove my self an honest man, being that I was last night in the forrest stealing Venison—­now, sir, to have you stand my friend, if that matter should be called in question, I married your daughter to this worthy gentleman.

Sir Arthur. 
I may chance to requite you, and make your neck crack for’t.

Sir John. 
If you do, I am as resolute as my Neighbour vicar of Waltham
Abbey; a hem, Grass and hay, we are all mortall; let’s live
till we be hangd, mine host, and be merry, and there’s an end.

[Enter Fabell.]

Fabell. 
Now, knights, I enter; now my part begins. 
To end this difference, know, at first I knew
What you intended, ere your love took flight
From old Mountchensey; you, sir Arthur Clare,
Were minded to have married this sweet beauty
To young Franke Jerningham; to cross which match,
I used some pretty sleights; but I protest
Such as but sate upon the skirts of Art;
No conjurations, nor such weighty spells
As tie the soul to their performancy. 
These for his love, who once was my dear pupil,
Have I effected.  Now, me thinks, tis strange
That you, being old in wisdom, should thus knit
Your forehead on this match, since reason fails;
No law can curb the lovers rash attempt;
Years, in resisting this, are sadly spent. 
Smile, then, upon your daughter and kind son,
And let our toil to future ages prove,
The devil of Edmonton did good in Love.

Sir Arthur. 
Well, tis in vain to cross the providence: 
Dear Son, I take thee up into my heart;
Rise, daughter; this is a kind father’s part.

Host.
Why, Sir John, send for Spindles noise presently:  Ha, ert be
night, I’ll serve the good Duke of Norfolk.

PRI. 
Grass and hay, mine Host, let’s live till we die, and be
merry, and there’s an end.