Harry. 
Away, you stale mess of white-broth!  Come hither, sister,
let me help you.

Clare. 
Mine Host, is not Sir Richard Mounchensey come yet, according
to our appointment, when we last dined here?

Host. The knight’s not yet apparent.—­Marry, here’s a forerunner that summons a parle, and saith, he’ll be here top and top-gallant presently.

Clare. 
Tis well, good mine host; go down, and see breakfast be
provided.

Host. Knight, thy breath hath the force of a woman, it takes me down; I am for the baser element of the kitchen:  I retire like a valiant soldier, face point blank to the foe-man, or, like a Courtier, that must not shew the Prince his posteriors; vanish to know my canuasadoes, and my interrogatories, for I serve the good Duke of Norfolk.

[Exit.]

Clare. 
How doth my Lady? are you not weary, Madam? 
Come hither, I must talk in private with you;
My daughter Milliscent must not over-hear.

Milliscent. 
Aye, whispring; pray God it tend my good! 
Strange fear assails my heart, usurps my blood.

Clare. 
You know our meeting with the knight Mounchensey
Is to assure our daughter to his heir.

Dorcas. 
Tis, without question.

Clare. 
Two tedious winters have past o’er, since first
These couple lov’d each other, and in passion
Glued first their naked hands with youthful moisture—­
Just so long, on my knowledge.

Dorcas. 
And what of this?

Clare. 
This morning should my daughter lose her name,
And to Mounchenseys house convey our arms,
Quartered within his scutcheon; th’ affiance, made
Twist him and her, this morning should be sealed.

Dorcas. 
I know it should.

Clare. 
But there are crosses, wife; here’s one in Waltham,
Another at the Abbey, and the third
At Cheston; and tis ominous to pass
Any of these without a pater-noster. 
Crosses of love still thwart this marriage,
Whilst that we two, like spirits, walk in night
About those stony and hard hearted plots.

Milliscent. 
O God, what means my father?

Clare. 
For look you, wife, the riotous old knight
Hath o’rerun his annual revenue
In keeping jolly Christmas all the year: 
The nostrils of his chimney are still stuft
With smoke, more chargeable then Cane-tobacco;
His hawks devour his fattest dogs, whilst simple,
His leanest curs eat him hounds carrion. 
Besides, I heard of late, his younger brother,
A Turkey merchant, hath sure suck’de the knight
By means of some great losses on the sea,
That, you conceive me, before God all is naught,
His seat is weak:  thus, each thing rightly scanned,
You’ll se a flight, wife, shortly of his land.