Milliscent. 
Treason to my hearts truest sovereign: 
How soon is love smothered in foggy gain!

Dorcas. 
But how shall we prevent this dangerous match?

Clare. 
I have a plot, a trick, and this is it-
Under this colour I’ll break off the match: 
I’ll tell the knight that now my mind is changd
For marrying of my daughter, for I intend
To send her unto Cheston Nunry.

Milliscent. 
O me accurst!

Clare. 
There to become a most religious Nun.

Milliscent. 
I’ll first be buried quick.

Clare. 
To spend her beauty in most private prayers.

Milliscent. 
I’ll sooner be a sinner in forsaking
Mother and father.

Clare. 
How dost like my plot?

Dorcas. 
Exceeding well; but is it your intent
She shall continue there?

Clare. 
Continue there?  Ha, ha, that were a jest! 
You know a virgin may continue there
A twelve month and a day only on trial. 
There shall my daughter sojourn some three months,
And in mean time I’ll compass a fair match
Twixt youthful Jerningham, the lusty heir
Of Sir Raph Jerningham, dwelling in the forest-
I think they’ll both come hither with Mounchensey.

Dorcas. 
Your care argues the love you bear our child;
I will subscribe to any thing you’ll have me.

[Exeunt.]

Milliscent. 
You will subscribe it! good, good, tis well;
Love hath two chairs of state, heaven and hell. 
My dear Mounchensey, thou my death shalt rue,
Ere to my heart Milliscent prove untrue.

[Exit.]

Scene II.  The same.

[Enter Blague.]

Host. Ostlers, you knaves and commanders, take the horses of the knights and competitors:  your honourable hulks have put into harborough, they’ll take in fresh water here, and I have provided clean chamber-pots.  Via, they come!

[Enter Sir Richard Mounchesney, Sir Raph Jerningham, young Frank Jerningham, Raymond Mounchesney, Peter Fabell, and Bilbo.]

Host.
The destinies be most neat Chamberlains to these swaggering
puritans, knights of the subsidy.

Sir Mounchesney. 
God a mercy, good mine host.

Sir Jerningham. 
Thanks, good host Blague.

Host. Room for my case of pistolles, that have Greek and Latin bullets in them; let me cling to your flanks, my nimble Giberalters, and blow wind in your calves to make them swell bigger.  Ha, I’ll caper in mine own fee-simple; away with puntillioes and Orthography!  I serve the good Duke of Norfolk.  Bilbo, Titere tu, patulae recubans sub tegmine fagi.

Bilbo.  Truly, mine host, Bilbo, though he be somewhat out of fashion, will be your only blade still.  I have a villanous sharp stomach to slice a breakfast.