Chapter III: Part 3

_Allen_. The best is last, and yet you hinder me. The Duke of _Padua_ hunting in the wood, Accompanied with Lordes and Gentlemen--

_Fal_. Swones what of that? what good can come of that?

_Allen_. Was made acquainted by the one of them, (That had some little remnant of his life) With all your practice and conspiracie.

_Fall_. I would that remnant had fled quicke to hell, To fetch fierce fi[e]ndes to rend their carcases, Rather then bring my life in ieopardie! Is this the best? swones, doe you mocke me, sonne, And make a iest at my calamitie?

_Allen_. Not I, good father; I will ease your woe, If you but yeeld unto my pollicie.

_Fal_. Declare it then, my wits are now to seeke; That peece of life hath so confounded mee That I am wholly overcome with feare.

_Allen_. The Duke hath vow'd to prosecute your life, With all the strict severitie he can; But I will crosse his resolution And keepe you from his furie well enough. Ile weare your habit, I will seeme the man That did suborne the bloodie murtherers; I will not stir from out this house of woe, But waight the comming of the officers, And answere for you fore the angrie Duke, And, if neede be, suffer your punishment.

_Fall_. Ile none of that; I do not like the last; I love thee dearer then I doe my life, And all I did, was to advance thy state To sunne-bright beames of shining happinesse.

_Allen_. Doubte not my life, for when I doe appeare Before the Duke, I being not the man, He can inflict no punishment on mee.

_Fall_. Mas, thou saiest true, a cannot punish thee; Thou wert no actor of their Tragaedie. But for my beard thou canst not counterfet And bring gray haires uppon thy downy chinne; White frostes are never seene in summers spring.

_Allen_. I bought a beard this day at _Padua_, Such as our common actors use to weare When youth would put on ages countenance; So like in shape, in colour, and in all, To that which growes upon your aged face, That were I dressed in your abilimentes, Your selfe would scarcely know me from your selfe.

_Fall_. That's excellent. What shape hast thou devis'd, To be my vizard to delude the worlde?

_Allen_. Why thus: ile presentlie shave off your haire, And dresse you in a lowlie shepheardes weede; Then you will seeme to have the carefull charge Of some wealth-bringing, rich, and fleecy flocke, And so passe currant from suspition.

_Fall_. This care of thine, my sonne, doth testifie, Nature in thee hath firme predominance, That neither losse of friend, nor vile reproch, Can shake thee with their strongest violence: In this disguise, ile see the end of thee, That thou, acquited, then maist succour me.

_Allen_. I am assur'd to be exempt from woe:-- This plot will worke my certaine overthrowe. [_(To the) People_.

_Fall_. I will beare hence thy mother, and my wife, Untimely murthered with true sorrowes knife. [_Exit_.

_Allen_. Untimely murthered! happy was that griefe, Which hath abridg'd whole numbers numberlesse Of hart-surcharging deplorations. She shall have due and Christian funerall, And rest in peace amongst her auncestors. As for our bodies, they shall be inter'd, In ravening mawes, of Ravens, Puttockes, Crowes, Of tatlin[g] Magpies, and deathes harbingers, That wilbe glutted with winde-shaken limmes Of blood-delighting hatefull murtherers. And yet these many winged sepulchers, Shall turne to earth, so I and father shall, At last attaine to earth by funerall. Well I will prosecute my pollicy, That wished death may end my miseries.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE VII.]

_Enter Cowley and Williams_.

_Cow_. Still in your dumpes, good _Harry_? yet at last, Utter your motive of this heavinesse. Why go you not unto your maisters house? What, are you parted? if that be the cause, I will provide you of a better place.

_Wil_. Who roves all day, at length may hit the marke; That is the cause,--because I cannot stay With him whose love is dearer then my life.

_Cow_. Why fell you out? why did you part so soone?

_Wil_. We fell not out, but feare hath parted us.

_Cow_. What, did he feare your truth or honest life?

_Wil_. No, no, your understanding is but dimme, That farre-remooved cannot iudge the feare. We both were fearefull, and we both did part, Because indeed we both were timerous.

_Cow_. What accident begot your mutuall feare?

_Wil_. That which my hart hath promis'd to conceale.

_Cow_. Why, now you fall into your auncient vaine.

_Wil_. Tis vaine to urge me from this silent vaine; I will conceale it, though it breed my paine.

_Cow_. It seemes to be a thing of consequence, And therefore prithie, _Harry_, for my love, Open this close fast-clasped mysterie.

_Wil_. Were I assur'd my hart should have release Of secret torment and distemperature, I would reveale it to you specially Whom I have found my faithfull favorite.

_Cow_. Good _Harrie Williams_, make no doubt of that; Besides your griefe reveald may have reliefe, Beyond your present expectation. Then tell it, _Harry_, what soere it be, And ease your hart of horror, me of doubt.

_Wil_. Then have you heard of _Beech_ of _Lambert Hill_, And of his boy which late were murthered?

_Cow_. I heard, and sawe their mangled carcases.

_Will_. But have you heard of them that murthered them?

_Cow_. No, would I had, for then Ide blaze their shame, And make them pay due penance for their sinne.

_Wil_. This I misdoubted, therefore will forbeare To utter what I thought to have reveald.

_Cow_. Knowst thou the actors of this murthrous deed, And wilt conceale it now the deed is done? Alas, poore man, thou knowest not what thou doost! Thou hast incur'd the danger of the lawe And thou mongst them must suffer punishment, Unlesse thou do confesse it presentlie.

_Wil_. What? shall I then betray my maisters life?

_Cow_. Better then hazard both thy life and soule To boulster out such barbarous villanie. Why, then belike your maister did the deed?

_Wil_. My maister unawares escapt my mouth; But what the Lord doth please shall come to light, Cannot be hid by humaine pollicie: His haplesse hand hath wrought the fatall end Of _Robert Beech_ and _Thomas Winchester_.

_Cow_. Could he alone do both those men to death? Hadst thou no share in execution?

_Wil_. Nor knew not of it, till the deed was done.

_Cow_. If this be true, thou maist escape with life: Confesse the truth unto the officers, And thou shalt finde the favour of the lawe.

_Wil_. If I offended, 'twas my Maister's love That made me hide his great transgressions: But I will be directed as you please. So save me God, as I am innocent!

[_Exeunt_.

[SCENE VIII.]

_Enter Alenso in Falleriaes apparell and berd;
Falleria shaven in shepheards habilliments_.

_Fal_. Part of my selfe, now seemst thou wholy me, And I seeme neither like my selfe nor thee, Thankes to thy care and this unknown disguise. I like a shepheard now must learn to know, When to lead foorth my little bleating flock, To pleasing pastures, and well-fatting walkes; In stormie time to drive them to the lee; To cheere the pretie Lambes, whose bleating voice Doth crave the wished comfort of their dams; To sound my merry Bag-pipe on the downes, In shearing times, poore Shepheards festivals; And lastlie, how to drive the Wolfe away, That seeke to make the little Lambes their pray.

_Allen_. Ah, have you care to drive the Wolfe away From sillie creatures wanting intellecte, And yet would suffer your devouring thoughts, To suck the blood of your dead brothers sonne! As pure and innocent as any Lambe _Pertillo_ was, which you have fed upon. But things past helpe may better be bewaild With carefull teares, then finde a remedie; Therefore, for feare our practise be espide, Let us to question of our husbandrie. How many Lambes fell from the middle flock, Since I myselfe did take the latter view?

_Enter Vesuvio, Turqual, Alberto_.

_Fall_. Some vive and twenty, whereof two are dead. But three and twenty scud about the fields, That glads my hart to ze their iollitie.

_Vesu_. This is the man, conferring of his Lambes, That slew a Lambe worth all his flock besides.

_Allen_. What is the time to let the Weathers blood? The forward spring, that hath such store of grasse, Hath fild them full of ranke unwholsome blood, Which must be purg'd; else, when the winter comes, The rot will leave me nothing but their skinnes.

_Fall_. Chil let om blood, but yet it is no time, Untill the zygne be gone below the hart.[41]

_Vesu_. Forbeare a while this idle businesse, And talke of matters of more consequence.

_Fall_. Che tell you plaine, you are no honest man, To call a shepheards care an idle toye. What though we have a little merry sport With flowrie gyrlonds, and an Oaten pipe, And jolly friskins on a holly-day, Yet is a shepheards cure a greater carke Then sweating Plough-men with their busie warke.

_Vesu_. Hence! leave your sheepish ceremoniall!-- And now, _Fallerio_, in the Princes name, I do arrest you, for the cruell murther Of young _Pertillo_, left unto your charge, Which you discharged with a bloody writ, Sign'd by the hands of those you did suborne. Nay, looke not strange, we have such evidence, To ratifie your _Stigian_ cruelty, That cannot be deluded any way.

_Allen_. Alas, my Lords, I know not what you say! As for my Nephew, he, I hope, is well: I sent him yesterday to _Padua_.

_Alber_. I, he is well, in such a vengers handes, As will not winck at your iniquitie.

_Allen_. By heaven and earth my soule is innocent! Say what you will, I know my conscience.

_Fal_.--To be afflicted with a scourge of care, Which my oreweaning rashnesse did infflict.

_Turq_. Come, beare him hence! expostulate no more; That heart that could invent such treachery, Can teach his face to brave it cunninglie.

_Alen_. I do defie your accusations; Let me have justice, I will answere it.

_Vesuv_. So, beare him hence! I meane to stay behinde, To take possession of his goods and landes For the Dukes use: it is too manifest.

_Allen_. I hope youle answere anything you doe. My Lord _Vesuvio_, you shall answere it, And all the rest that use extremities.

_Alber_. I, to the Dukes Exchecker, not to you.

[_Exeunt omnes; manet Falleria_.

_Fal_. Thus shades are caught when substances are fled. Indeede they have my garments, but my selfe Am close enough from their discoverie; But not so close but that my verie soule, Is ract with tormentes for _Pertillos_ death. I am _Acteon_; I doe beare about, My hornes of shame and inhumanitie. My thoughts, like hounds which late did flatter me With hope of great succeeding benefits, Now gin to teare my care-tormented heart With feare of death and tortring punishment. These are the stings whenas our consciences Are stuf'd and clogd with close-concealed crimes. Well, I must smoather all these discontentes, And strive to beare a smoother countenaunce Then rugged care would willingly permit. Ile to the Court to see _Allenso_ free, That he may then relieve my povertie.

[_Exit_.

[SCENE IX.]

_Enter Constable, three watchmen with halberdes_.

_Con_. Who would have thought of all the men alive That _Thomas Merry_ would have done this deede So full of ruth and monstrous wickednesse!

1 _wat_. Of all the men that live in _London_ walles, I would have thought that _Merry_ had bin free.

2 _wat_. Is this the fruites of Saint-like Puritans? I never like such damn'd hipocrisie.

3 _wat_. He would not loase a sermon for a pound, An oath he thought would rend his iawes in twaine, An idle word did whet Gods vengeance on; And yet two murthers were not scripulous. Such close illusions God will bring to light, And overthrowe the workers with his might.

_Con_. This is the house; come let us knocke at dore; I see a light, they are not all in bed: [_Knockes; Rachell comes downe_. How now, faire maide? is your brother up?

_Rach_. He's not within, sir; would you speake with him?

_Con_. You doe but iest; I know he is within, And I must needes go uppe and speake with him.

_Rach_. In deede, good sir, he is in bed a sleepe, And I was loath to trouble him to-night.

_Con_. Well, sister, I am sorry for your sake; But for your brother, he is knowne to be A damned villaine and an hipocrite. _Rachell_, I charge thee in her highnesse name, To go with us to prison presently.

_Rach_. To prison, sir? alas, what have I done?

_Con_. You know that best, but every one doe know You and your brother murthered Maister _Beech_, And his poore boy that dwelt at _Lambert hill_.

_Rach_. I murthered? my brother knowes that I, Did not consent to either of their deathes.

_Con_. That must be tride; where doth your brother lye?

_Rach_. Here in his bed; me thinks he's not a sleepe.

_Con_. Now, Maister _Merry_, are you in a sweate?
[_Throwes his night cap away_.

_Merry sigh_. No verily, I am not in a sweate.

_Con_. Some sodaine feare affrights you; whats the cause?

_Mer_. Nothing but that you wak'd me unawares.

_Con_. In the Queenes name I doe commaund you rise, And presently to goe along with us. [_Riseth up_.

_Mer_. With all my hart; what, doe you know the cause?

_Con_. We partly doe; when saw you maister _Beech_?

_Mer_. I doe not well remember who you meane.

_Con_. Not _Beech_, the Chaundler upon _Lambert hill_?

_Mer_. I know the man, but saw him not this fortnight.

_Con_. I would you had not, for your sisters sake, For yours, for his, and for his harmlesse boy. Be not obdurate in your wickednesse; Confession drawes repentance after it.

_Mer_. Well, maister Constable, I doe confesse, I was the man that did them both to death: As for my sister and my harmlesse man, I doe protest they both are innocent.

_Con_. Your man is fast in hold, and hath confest The manner how, and where, the deede was done; Therefore twere vaine to colour anything. Bring them away.

_Rach_. Ah brother, woe is me!

_Mer_. I comfortlesse will helpe to comfort thee.

[_Exeunt_.

_Enter Trueth_.

Weepe, weepe poor soules, & enterchange your woes; Now, _Merry_, change thy name and countenance; Smile not, thou wretched creature, least in scorne Thou smile to thinke on thy extremities. Thy woes were countlesse for thy wicked deedes, Thy sisters death neede not increase the coumpt, For thou couldst never number them before.-- Gentles, helpe out with this suppose, I pray, And thinke it truth, for Truth dooth tell the tale. _Merry_, by lawe convict as principall, Receives his doome, to hang till he be dead, And afterwards for to be hangd in chaines. _Williams_ and _Rachell_ likewise are convict For their concealment; _Williams_ craves his booke[42] And so receaves a brond[43] of infamie; But wretched _Rachels_ sexe denies that grace, And therefore dooth receive a doome of death To dye with him whose sinnes she did conceale. Your eyes shall witnesse of their shaded tipes, Which many heere did see perform'd indeed. As for _Fallerio_, not his homelie weedes, His beardlesse face, nor counterfetted speech, Can shield him from deserved punishment; But what he thinkes shall rid him from suspect, Shall drench him in more waves of wretchednesse, Pulling his sonne into relentlesse iawes, Of hungrie death, on tree of infamie. Heere comes the Duke that doomes them both to die; Next _Merries_ death shall end this Tragedie.

[_Exit_.

[ACT THE FIFTH.]

[SCENE I.]

_Enter Duke, Vesuvio, Turq., Alberto: and Fallerio disguised_.

_Duke_. Where is that _Syren_, that incarnate fiend, Monster of Nature, spectacle of shame, Blot and confusion of his familie, False-seeming semblance of true-dealing trust, I meane _Fallerio_, bloody murtherer: Hath he confest his cursed treacherie, Or will he stand to proove his innocence?

_Vesu_. We have attach'de _Fallerio_, gracious lord, And did accuse him with _Pertillos_ death; But he remote will not confesse himselfe Neither the meanes nor author of the same. His mightie vowes and protestations Do almost seeme to pleade integritie, But that we all do know the contrarie.

_Fall_.--I know your error stricks your knowledge blinde; His seeming me, doth so delude your minde. [_(To the) People_.

_Duke_. Then bring him forth, to answer for himselfe, Since he stands stoutly to denie the deed:

[_Alberto and other fetch Alenso_.

His sonne can witnesse that the dying man Accusde _Fallerio_ for his treacherie.-- Stand forth thou close disguised hipocrite, And speake directlie to these articles: First, didst thou hire two bloodie murtherers To massacre _Pertillo_ in a wood?

_Alen_. I never did suborne such murtherers, But ever lov'd _Pertillo_ as my life.

_Duke_. Thy sonne can witnesse to the contrarie.

_Alen_. I have no sonne to testifie so much.

_Fal_.--No, for his gravitie is counterfeit, Pluck off his beard, and you will sweare it so.

_Vesu_. Have you no sonne? doth not _Alenso_ live?

_Alen_. _Alenso_ lives, but is no sonne of mine.

_Alber_. Indeed his better part had not his source From thy corrupted vice-affecting hart, For vertue is the marke he aimeth at.

_Duke_. I dare be sworne that _Sostrata_ would blush, Shouldst thou deny _Alenso_ for thy sonne.

_Alen_. Nay, did she live, she would not challenge me To be the father of that haplesse sonne.

_Turq_. Nay, then anon you will denie your selfe To be your selfe, unjust _Fallerio_.

_Alen_. I do confesse my selfe to be my selfe, But will not answere to _Fallerio_.

_Duke_. Not to _Fallerio_? this is excellent! You are the man was cal'd _Fallerio_.

_Alen_. He never breathed yet that cal'd me so, Except he were deceiv'd as you are now.

_Duke_. This impudence shall not excuse your fault; You are well knowne to be _Fallerio_, The wicked husband of dead _Sostrata_ And father to the vertuous _Alenso_; And even as sure as all these certeinties, Thou didst contrive thy little Nephewes death.

_Alen_. True, for I am nor false _Fallerio_, Husband, nor father, as you do suggest, And therefore did not hire the murtherers; Which to be true acknowledge with your eyes. [_Puls off his disguise_.

_Duke_. How now, my Lords! this is a myracle, To shake off thirtie yeares so sodeinlie And turne from feeble age to flourishing youth!

_Alb_. But he my Lord that wrought this miracle, Is not of power to free himselfe from death, Through the performance of this suddaine change.

_Duke_. No, were he the chiefest hope of Christendome, He should not live for this presumption: Use no excuse, _Alenso_, for thy life; My doome of death shall be irrevocable.

_Alen_. Ill fare his soule that would extenuate The rigor of your life-confounding doome! I am prepar'd with all my hart to die, For thats th' end of humaine miserie.

_Duke_. Then thus: you shall be hang'd immediately, For your illusion of the Magistrates With borrowed shapes of false antiquitie.

_Alen_. Thrice-happy sentence, which I do imbrace With a more fervent and unfained zeale Then an ambicious rule-desiring man Would do a Iem-bedecked Diadem, Which brings more watchfull cares and discontent Then pompe or honor can remunerate. When I am dead, let it be said of me, _Alenso_ died to set his father free.

_Fal_. That were a freedome worse than servitude To cruell Turke or damned Infidell. Most righteous Judge, I do appeale for Iustice, Justice on him that hath deserved death, Not on _Alenso_; he is innocent.

_Alen_. But I am guiltie of abetting him, Contrarie to his Maiestie's Edict, And therefore death is meritorious.

_Fall_. I am the wretch that did subborne the slaves, To murther poore _Pertillo_ in the wood. Spare, spare _Alenso_! he is innocent.

_Duke_. What strange appeale is this! we know thee not: None but _Fallerio_ is accusde hereof.

_Alen_. Then, father, get you hence, depart in time, Least being knowne you suffer for the crime.

_Fal_. Depart, and leave thee clad in horrors cloake, And suffer death for true affection! Although my soule be guiltie of more sinne, Then ever sinfull soule were guiltie of, Yet fiends of hell would never suffer this. I am thy father, though unworthy so: Oh, still I see these weeds do feare your eyes. I am _Fallerio_, make no doubt of me, [_Put off_. Though thus disguisde, in habite, countenance, Only to scape the terror of the lawe.

_Alen_. And I _Alenso_ that did succour him Gainst your commaundement, mightie Soveraigne. Ponder your oath, your vowe, as God did live, I should not live, if I did rescue him. I did, God lives, and will revenge it home, If you defer my condigne punishment.

_Duke_. Assure your selves, you both shall suffer death: But for _Fallerio_, he shall hang in chaines After he's dead, for he was principall.

_Fall_. Unsaverie Woormewood, Hemlock, bitter gall, Brings no such bad, unrelisht, sower taste, Unto the tongue as this death-boding voice, Brings to the eares of poore _Fallerio_, Not for myselfe but for _Allensoes_ sake, Whome I have murthered by my trechery. Ah my dread Lord, if any little sparke Of melting pittie doth remaine alive, And not extinguisht by my impious deedes, Oh kindle it unto a happie flame, To light _Allenso_ from this miserie Which through dim death he's like to fall into.

_Allen_. That were to overthrow my soule and all. Should you reverse this sentence of my death, My selfe would play the death-man on my selfe And overtake your swift and winged soule, Ere churlish _Caron_ had transported you Unto the fields of sad _Proserpina_.

_Duke_. Cease, cease, _Fallerio_, in thy bootlesse prayers. I am resolv'd, I am inexorable. _Vesuvio_, see their judgement be performde, And use _Alenso_ with all clemencie, Provided that the lawe be satisfied.

[_Exit Duke and Alberto_.

_Vesu_. It shall be done with all respectivenesse; Have you no doubt of that, my gratious Lord.

_Fall_. Here is a mercie mixt with equitie, To show him favour but cut off his head.

_Alen_. My reverend father pacifie yourselfe; I can, and will, indure the stroake of death, Were his appearance nere so horrible, To meete _Pertillo_ in another world.

_Fal_. Thou shouldst have tarried untill natures course Had been extinct, that thou oregrowne with age, Mightst die the death of thy progenitors; Twas not thy meanes he died so soddenly, But mine, that causing his, have murthered thee.

_Alen_. But yet I slew my mother, did I not?

_Fal_. I, with reporting of my villanie. The very audit of my wickednesse, Had force enough to give a sodaine death. Ah sister, sister, now I call to minde, Thy dying wordes now prov'd a prophesie, If you deale ill with this distressed childe, God will no doubt revenge the innocent. I have delt ill, and God hath tane revenge.

_Allen_. Now let us leave remembrance of past deedes, And thinke on that which more concerneth us.

_Fal_. With all my hart; thou ever wert the spur Which prict me on to any godlinesse; And now thou doest indevor to incite Me make my parting peace with God and men. I doe confesse, even from my verie soule, My hainous sinne and grievous wickednesse Against my maker manie thousand waies: _Ab imo cordis_ I repent my selfe Of all my sinnes against his maiestie; And, heavenly father, lay not to my charge The death of poore _Pertillo_ and those men Which I suborn'd to be his murtherers, When I appeare before thy heavenlie throne To have my sentence or of life or death.

_Vesu_. Amen, amen, and God continue still These mercie-moving meditations.

_Allen_. And thou, great God, which art omnipotent, Powerful! enough for to redeeme our soules Even from the verie gates of gaping hell, Forgive our sinnes and wash away our faults In the sweete river of that precious blood Which thy deare sonne did shed in _Galgotha_, For the remission of all contrite soules.

_Fal_. Forgive thy death, my thrice-beloved sonne.

_Allen_. I doe, and, father, pardon my misdeedes Of disobedience and unthankfullnesse.

_Fal_. Thou never yet wert disobedient, Unlesse I did commaund unlawfulnesse. Ungratefulnesse did never trouble thee; Thou art too bounteous thus to guerdon me.

_Allen_. Come, let us kisse and thus imbrace in death. Even when you will, come, bring us to the place, Where we may consumate our wretchednesse, And change it for eternall hapinesse.

[_Exeunt omnes_.

[SCENE II.]

_Enter Merry and Rachel to execution with Officers
with Halberdes, the Hangman with a lather [sic] &c_.

_Mer_. Now, sister _Rachell_, is the houre come Wherein we both must satisfie the law For _Beeches_ death and harmelesse _Winchester_. Weepe not sweete sister, for that cannot helpe: I doe confesse fore all this company That thou wert never privie to their deathes, But onelie helpest me, when the deede was done, To wipe the blood and hide away my sinne; And since this fault hath brought thee to this shame, I doe intreate thee on my bended knee To pardon me for thus offending thee.

_Rach_. I doe forgive you from my verie soule, And thinke not that I shed these store of teares, For that I price my life, or feare to dye, Though I confesse the manner of my death Is much more grievous then my death it selfe; But I lament for that it hath beene said I was the author of this crueltie And did produce you to this wicked deede, Whereof God knowes that I am innocent.

_Mer_. Indeede thou art; thy conscience is at peace, [_Goe up the lather_. And feeles no terror for such wickednesse; Mine hath beene vexed but is now at rest, For that I am assur'd my hainous sinne Shall never rise in judgement gainst my soule, But that the blood of _Jesus Christ_ hath power To make my purple sinne as white as Snowe. One thing, good people, witnesse here with me, That I doe dye in perfect charitie, And do forgive, as I would be forgiven First of my God and then of all the world. Cease publishing that I have beene a man Train'd up in murther or in crueltie, For fore this time, this time is all too soone, I never slue or did consent to kill; So helpe me God as this I speake is true! I could say something of my innocence, In fornication and adulterie, But I confesse the iustest man alive, That beares about the frailtie of a man, Cannot excuse himselfe from daily sinne In thought, in word, and deed. Such was my life. I never hated _Beech_ in all my life, Onely desire of money which he had, And the inciting of that foe of man, That greedie gulfe, that great _Leviathan_, Did halle [_sic_] me on to these callamities; For which, even now my very soule dooth bleede. God strengthen me with patience to endure This chastisement, which I confesse too small A punishment for this my hainous sinne. Oh be couragious, sister! fight it well! We shall be crown'd with immortallitie.

_Rach_. I will not faint, but combat manfully; Christ is of power to helpe and strengthen me.

_Officer_. I pray make hast; the hower is almost past.

_Mer_. I am prepar'd; oh God, receive my soule; Forgive my sinnes, for they are numberlesse. Receive me, God, for now I come to thee! [_Turne of the Lather. Rachel shrinketh_.

_Offi_. Nay shrinke not, woman; have a cheerefull hart.

_Rach_. I, so I do, and yet this sinfull flesh Will be rebellious gainst my willing spirit. Come, let me clime these steps that lead to heaven, Although they seeme the staires of infamie: Let me be merror to ensuing times, And teach all sisters how they do conceale, The wicked deeds of brethren, or of friends. I not repent me of my love to him, But that thereby I have provoked God To heavie wrath and indignation; Which turne away, great God, for Christes sake. Ah, _Harry Williams_, thou wert chiefest cause, That I doe drinke of this most bitter cup, For hadst thou opened _Beeches_ death at first, The boy had liv'd and thou hadst sav'd my life. But thou art branded with a marke of shame, And I forgive thee from my very soule. Let him and me learn all that heare of this To utter brothers or their maisters misse; Conceale no murthers, lest it do beget More bloody deeds of like deformitie. Thus God forgive my sinnes, receive my soule! And though my dinner be of bitter death, I hope my soule shall sup with Jesus Christ, And see his presence everlastingly. [_Dyeth_.

_Offi_. The Lord of heaven have mercy on her soule, And teach all others by this spectacle, To shunne such dangers as she ran into, By her misguided taciturnitie: Cut downe their bodies, give hers funerall, But let his body be conveyed hence, To _Mile-end_ greene, and there be hang'd in chaines.

[_Exeunt omnes_.

_Enter Truthe_.

_Tru_. See here the end of lucre and desire Of riches, gotten by unlawfull meanes. What monstrous evils this hath brought to passe, Your scarce-drie eyes give testimoniall; The father sonne, the sister brother brings, To open scandall and contemptuous death.

_Enter Homicide and Covetousnesse_.

But heere come they that wrought these deeds of ruthe, As if they meant to plot new wickednesse. Whether so fast, you damned miscreants, Yee vaine deluders of the credulous, That seeke to traine men to destruction?

_Mur_. Why, we will on, to set more harmes a flote, That I may swim in rivers of warme blood, Out-flowing from the sides of Innocents.

_Cove_. I will entice the greedie-minded soule, To pull the fruite from the forbidden tree; Yet _Tantall_-like, he shall but glut his eye, Nor feede his body with salubrious fruite.

_Tru_. Hence Stigmaticks, you shall not harbor heare, To practice execrable butcheries! My selfe will bring your close designes to light, And overthrow your vilde conspiracies. No hart shall intertaine a murthrous thought Within the sea-imbracing continent, Where faire _Eliza_, Prince of pietie, Doth weare the peace-adorned Diadem.

_Cove_. Mauger the worst, I will have many harts That shall affect my secret whisperings; And chinck of golde is such a pleasing crie, That all men wish to heare such harmony, And I will place stern _Murther_ by my side, That we may do more harmes then haughty pride.

_Homi_. Truth, now farewell; hereafter thou shalt see Ile vexe thee more with many tragedies.

_Truth_. The more the pitty; would the hart of man Were not so open wide to entertaine The harmfull baites of selfe-devouring sinne! But from the first unto the latter times, It hath and will be so eternally.---- Now it remaines to have your good advice Unto a motion of some consequence. There is a Barke thats newly rigd for sea, Unmand, unfurnishd with munition: She must incounter with a greater foe Then great _Alcydes_ slue in _Lerna_ Lake Would you be pleasd to man this willing barke With good conceits of her intencion; To store her with the thundring furniture Of smoothest smiles, and pleasing plaudiats; She shall be able to endure the shock Of snarling _Zoylus_, and his cursed crue, That seekes to sincke her in reproches waves; And may perchance obteine a victorie Gainst curious carpes, and fawning parasites: But if you suffer her, for want of ayde, To be orewhelmed by her insulting foes, Oh then she sinckes, that meant to passe the flood With stronger force to do her countrie good. It resteth thus; whether she live or dye, She is your Beades-man everlastinglie.

Finis--Rob. Yarington.

_Laus Deo_

INTRODUCTION TO THE CAPTIVES; OR, THE LOST RECOVERED.

In Sir Henry Herbert's MS. Office-Book, under date Sept. 3rd, 1624, is the entry:--"for the Cock-pit Company[44] a new play called the Captive [_sic_] or the Lost Recovered, written by Hayward," i.e., Heywood. The lost recovered! Lost for two centuries and a half was this comedy of dear Tom Heywood, until I recovered it from Egerton MS. 1994. I am proud to have rendered this service to a gentle poet who has given me many hours of delight.

The play is without title or author's name in the MS. After reading the first page I judged that the author was Heywood, and this impression was soon confirmed beyond all doubt. In the MS. the present play is immediately followed by a piece called _Calisto_, which consists of scenes from Heywood's _Golden Age_ and _Silver Age_. I have elsewhere mentioned (Vol. ii. p. 419) that _Calisto_ and _The Captives_ are written in the same desperately difficult handwriting,--peculiar to these two plays, and not found in any other part of the volume. There can be no doubt that whoever transcribed _Calisto_ transcribed also _The Captives_. But from internal evidence alone--putting aside the testimony afforded by the handwriting, and ignoring the entry in Sir Henry Herbert's Office-Book--any competent reader could plainly perceive that the play is Heywood's. In the very first scene--in the conversation between Treadway and Raphael--we feel at once the charm of that hearty "Christianism" which is never absent from Heywood's work. There is no affectation in Heywood; he is always natural and simple, though occasionally the writing sprawls.

Everybody knows the droll description in Heywood's _English Traveller_ of the "Shipwreck by Drink,"[45]--how some unthrift youths, carousing deeply, chanced to turn their talk on ships and storms at sea; whereupon one giddy member of the company suddenly conceived that the room was a pinnace, that the sounds of revelry were the bawlings of sailors, and that his unsteady footing was due to the wildness of the tempest; the illusion spread among his companions, and a scene of whimsical confusion followed. In _The Captives_, ii. 2, we have a similar conceit suggested:--

_Scrib_. Such was the grace heaven sent us, who from perill,
Danger of lyfe, the extreamest of all extreames
Hathe brought us to the happy patronage
Of this most reverent abbott.

_Clowne_. What dangers? what extreames?

_Scrib_. From the sea's fury, drowneing; for last night
Our shipp was splitt, wee cast upon these rocks.

_Clowne_. Sayd in a jest, in deede! Shipwreck by land! I perceive
you tooke the woodden waggen for a ship and the violent rayne for
the sea, and by cause some one of the wheels broake and you cast
into some water plashe, you thought the shipp had splitt and you
had bene in danger of drowneinge.

The main story of _The Captives_ is borrowed from Plautus's _Rudens_, many passages being translated almost word for word. It will be remembered that in the _English Traveller_ Heywood was indebted to another of Plautus's plays--the _Mostellaria_. I have not been able to discover the source of the very curious underplot of _The Captives_.

The MS. from which the play is printed bears every appearance of being a play-house copy. Numerous passages have been cancelled, seemingly (for the most part) by the hand of some reviser. In most instances I have restored the cancelled passages to the text--though the task of deciphering them has been cruelly difficult.

THE CAPTIVES; OR, THE LOST RECOVERED.

A Comedy by THOMAS HEYWOOD.

Licensed by Sir Henry Herbert in 1624, and now first printed from Egerton MS. 1994.

_Actus primus_.

SCENA PR.

_Enter Mr. Raphael a younge marchaunt, Mr. Treadway
his companione and frend_.

_Raphael_. You talke to one thats deaf; I am resolv'd.

_Treadway_. I knwe [_sic_] you are not of that stupid sence But you will lyst to reason.

_Raphael_. Alls but vayne.

_Treadway_. You saye shees fayre.

_Raphael_. And there-fore to bee lov'd.

_Treadway_.[46] No consequent To trust to collour. Are not the bewtyous lyllyes, The gardens pryde and glorye of the feilds, Thoughe to the eye fayre and delectable, Yet ranke in smell? the stayneles swanne With all the Oceans water cannot wash The blacknes from her feete, tis borne with her. Oft painted vessayles bringe in poysond cates, And the blackest serpents weare the goldenst scales; And woman, made mans helper at the fyrst, Dothe oft proove his destroyer.

_Raphael_. Saye perhapps Some frend of yours miscarried in his choyse, Will you condeme all women for that one? Bycause we reade one _Lais_ was unchast, Are all Corinthian Ladyes cortesans? Shall I, bycause my neighbours house was burnt, Condeme the necessary use of fyre? One surfeitts, and shall I refuse to eate? That marchant man by shipwreck lost his goodds; Shall I, bycause hee perisht in the sea, Abiure the gainfull trade of merchandyse, Despoyle my shipps, and unbecom [?] the deepes Of theire fayre Sayles and tackles?

_Treadway_. Not so, frend.[47] Althoughe her person may perhapps content, Consider but the place.

_Raphael_. I knwe it badd, Nay woorst of Ills.

_Treadway_. A howse of prostitution And common brothellrie.

_Raphael_. Which coold not stand But that her vertue guards it and protects it From blastinges and heavens thunders. There shee lyves Lyke to a ritche and pretious Jewell lost, Fownd shyninge on a doonge-hill, yet the gemme No wyse disparadged of his former worthe Nor bated of his glory; out of this fyre Of lust and black temptation sheis [_sic_] returned Lyke gold repur'd and tryde.

_Treadway_. Of what byrthe is shee?

_Raphael_. Unknwne to mee or any: shee protests, Neye to her self; what neede I question that? Sure sutche sweete features, goodnes, modesty Such gentlenes, such vertue cannot bee Deryvd from base and obscure parentadge.

_Treadway_. Whats then your end and purpose?

_Raphael_. To redeeme her Out of this gayle of sinne and leprosye, This mart of all diseases, where shee lyves Still under the comande and Tyrany Of a most base hee-bawde: about which busines Wee have allready traffict.

_Treadway_. Well, if so, And to dispose her elsewhere to her goodd, Provided still that vertue be your ayme, I cannot but commende your charity And to my power I'l seeke to further it.

_Raphael_. You so intyre mee to you. Within theire!

_Enter the Clowne_.

_Clowne_. Within theire is nowe without heare: your worshipps pleasure?

_Raphael_. Hye to the next key and inquire for one cald Seignior _Mildewe_ and resolve him from mee that I have kept apointment: the somms redy and present to bee tendred.

_Clowne_. Who? the _Frenshe_ monster,[48] _Neapolitan_ Seignor, the man-makarel[49] and marchant of madens-fleshe that deales altogether in flawed ware and crackt comodityes? the bawdy broker, I meanes, where a man for his dollers may have choyse of diseases, and som tymes the pox too, if hee will leeve beehind him a good pawne for it.

_Raphael_. How thou drummst.

_Clowne_. Marry qothe hee. So I may happen to bringe it awaye in my nose. Well I smell some bawdy business or other in hand. They call this place _Marcellis_ Roade, the cheiff haven towne in _France_, but hee keepes a road[50] in his oune howse wherein have ridd and bin ridd more leakinge vessayles, more panderly pinks,[51] pimps and punkes, more rotten bottoms ballanst, more fly-boates[52] laden and unladen every morninge and evenning tyde then weare able to fill the huge greate baye of _Portingall_. Is this all, syr?

_Raphael_. Yes all, and heares the somme.

_Clowne_. A small somme of that is worthe all the busines that I am sent about, for the all in all on't is I am afrayde that all will proove woorthe nothinge.

_Treadway_. And yet mee thinkes ere folly you conclude You should a little stagger.

_Raphael_. Should? wherein?

_Treadway_. For many reasons: Il alleadge som fewe. Who knwes but this your fayre and seeminge saynt, Thoughe disposd well and in her owne condition Of promisinge goodnes, yet livinge in the seminary Of all libidinous actions, spectars, sights, Even in the open market where sinne's sould Where lust and all uncleanes are commerst As freely as comodityes are vended Amongst the noblest marchants,--who I saye So confident that dare presume a virgin Of such a soft and maiden temperature, Deyly and howerly still sollicited By gallants of all nations, all degrees, Allmost all ages, even from upright youth To the stoopinge and decrepitt--

_Raphael_. Heare mee nowe.

_Treadway_. Two woords and I have doone: the place considered, The basenes of the person under whome Shee lyves opprest, a slave of sordid lyfe, Conditiond with the devill, temptinge still Sometymes by fayre means, then againe by foul, To prostitute her for his servyle gaynes; And next the dissolute crewe with which shees hows'd Ech night, ech deye perswedinge boathe with toonge And lewde example; all these circonstances Duly considered, I shoold dowbt at least, If not presume, the woorst.

_Raphael_. Oh you have pleasd mee, And in proposinge all these difficultyes Given of her graces ample testimony. Shee is that miracle, that only one That cann doo these; wear't comon in the sexe Twold not appeare to mee so admirable; It is for these I love her.

_Treadway_. You are resolvd And I'l not staye your purpose.

_Enter the Clowne with Mildewe and Sarleboys his
guest and frende_.

_Clowne_. I have brought this flesh-fly whome as soone as the butchers wyves sawe comminge throwghe the shambles, they all of them stood with theire flapps in theire hands like fanns. I, demandinge the reason itt was answerd me againe itt was to keepe away his infectious breath least it should fill theire meate with fly-blowes.

_Raphael_. Well, mett, good Mr. _Mildewe_.

_Mildewe_. My returne Of your salutes I cast belowe your feete.

_Raphael_. Syr, I am yours to treade on. You will then Stand to your former bargen?

_Mildewe_. I weare else Not woorthy to bee stil'd what I am tearmd, A trewe venereall broaker.

_Clowne_. That's in _Italian_ A damnable hee bawde.

_Mildewe_ Y'have such a bargen Marcellis, nor all France, shall yeild the like. Tis such a deynty peece of purity Such a coy thinge that[53] hee unto whose lott She shall hereafter fall may boast himself To bee a happy husband. For our trade Shees out at that: neather promises, rewards, Example or Intreaty, fayre, fowle meanes, Gaine present or the hope of future goodd, Can force from her a presens; then much lesse A frendly prostitution.

_Raphael_. Hearst thou this?

_Treadway_. Yes[54] and comende it in her, if that toonge, Even from his fyrst of speakinge traind to lye, Can now at lengthe speake truth.

_Clowne_. Ay theres the dowbt.

_Sarly_. This too yeares I have quested to his howse, And knwe all this most certeine.

_Raphael_. Witnes too.

_Mildewe_. I doo protest she spoyles my family And rather growne a hyndrance to my trade Then benefitt; so that, if not to losse, I wishe that I were clerly ridd of her, For shee hathe gott a trick to[55] my whores; And such as of themselves are impudent, When shee but coms in presens she makes blushe, As if ashamd of what they late had doon Or are about to doo.

_Clowne_. Well sayde, ould sinner.

_Raphael_. See, heeres the sum, 3 hundred crownes.

_Mildewe_. O'th somme.

_Raphael_. All currant and full weight.

_Mildewe_. I'l fetch my doughter That hath no lightnes in her, currant too As any lasse i'th cittye.

_Raphael_. _Mildewe_, staye.

_Clowne_. Staye, oh thou father of fornication and marchant of nothinge but mesteryes and mischeife; whele about, thou dung[c]art of diseases; sayle this way thoue galley foyst[56] of galls and garbadge! Dost not heare my master? staye!

_Mildewe_. Why, did his worshippe call?

_Clowne_. Didst thou not heare him call, and mee cry out upon thee?

_Mildewe_. His pleasure then?

_Raphael_. I have bethought mee better nowe to keepe This business secrett, least it chance to arryve To th'eares of some of my most noble frends; And not to make it publicke and this honest Purpose of myne by that meanes misreated,[57] Heare lett her stay till night bycause I am loath In th'eye of day to move her through the streetes.

_Mildewe_. Good, syr.

_Raphael_. Nwe [Now] in the villaige by, that fronts the sea, Som halff league off where stands the monastery, I have bespoake a place to sojorn her. There I this evening do intend[58] a feast Where only wee and som fewe private frends Have purpost to bee jhoviall. To that place I prithee, with what pryvacy thou canst, Conduct her and so add unto our guests.

_Mildewe_. The place I knwe, the tyme is perfect with mee, And for the feast you saye you have prepared I shall provyde a stomacke.

_Raphael_. Her caskett, and such other necessaryes Included in our bargen, bring alonge Or lett her mayde do'ot for thee.

_Mildewe_. I'l not bate her A ruff or ragge; no pinne that's usefull too her Will I keepe backe.

_Raphael_. To this you are witnes, frend.

_Treadway_. I am, Syr.

_Mildewe_. So's my guest.

_Clowne_. And lookes as if with me Hee only could write witlesse.

_Raphael_. Supper tyme You will remember, _Mildewe_.

_Mildewe_. Possible I should forgett to eate of others' cost? It never was my custom.

_Clowne_. Choake you for't.

_Raphael_. Come, frend, mee thinks I have doone a deede this day Crownes all my better actions, for I have raised An Innocent from the hands of an Infidell agent.

_Clowne_. Farewell, rott, farewell murreine, adiewe.

_Mildewe_. Farewell till soone.

[_Exeunt Raphael, Treadway, and Clowne_.

_Sarleb_. And do you meane to keepe your promisse then, And doo as you have sayde?

_Mildewe_. Why not, I prithee? What else canst thou advyse mee?

_Sarleb_. Are not wee Boathe of a rotten conscience, men debosht, Secluded from the company of such As either are or else would stryve to bee Reputed honest? wherefore then should wee Keepe tutche with any that professe themselves Not to bee of our ranke?

_Mildewe_. Proceede, good frend: Thou hast putt project in my brayne allredy, Small tyme woold better fashion.

_Sarleb_. What if I Laye such a plotte that you shall gayne these crownes These full three hundred to your proper use, And of these peevishe harletryes at home Make a much greater market?

_Mildewe_. Marry, syr, That were a tale worth listeninge.

_Sarleb_. These crowns Are all your owne in your possession, So are the maydes. I knowe you ritche besydes In coyne and jewells; heere you lyve despysed, And whats this clime to us of more esteme Then any forreine region? whores and bawdes May lyve in every corner of the woorld, We knowe tis full of sinners. This, this day Letts hyre a bark; wee dwell upon the haven, And instantly 'tis done. Shipp all your goods With these shee-chatteyles; putt this night to sea-- England they saye is full of whormasters; There will bee vent for such comoditye, There strompett them where they (you saye) weare born, Else you in _Spayne_ may sell them to the stewes, _Venyce_ or any place of _Italy_; They are everywhere good chaffer. If not these, What saye you to _Morocho, Fesse, Algiers_? Faith these are wares in all parts vendible, No matter thoughe to _Turke_ and infidell, So itt bringe gayne and profitt.

_Mildewe_. Lett me hugg thee For this, deare frend; heareafter I will style thee My better genius; thou hast monied mee in this, Nay landed me, made me thy braynes executor, And putt mee in a lardge possession. Go hyre a barke.

_Sarlab_. I shall.

_Mildewe_. And instantly.

_Sarlab_. I shall.

_Mildewe_. Ere night wee'l putt into a sea No larger then our full stretcht consciences. Lett mee once more Imbrace thee. [_Exeunt_.

SCENA 2.

_Enter an Abbot with his covent[59] of Fryars, amongst
them Fryar Jhon, and Fryar Ritchard_.

_Abbot_. As I have heare priority of place, Boathe by our patrons favour and your voyce, So give me leave to arbitrate amongst you.

_Fr. Jhon_. Without respect of person wee acknowledge you. Our prince and cheiff.

_Fr. Rich_. And to your fatherly And grave advyse humbly submitt our selves.

_Abbot_. Knwe then in this small covent, which consysts Only of 12 in nomber, fryars I meane And us the Abbat, I have fownde amongst you Many and grosse abuses; yet for the present I will insist on fewe. Quarrells, debates, Whisperinge, supplantinges, private calumnyes, These ought not bee in such a brotherhood. Of these Fryar _Jhon_ and thou Fryar _Richard_ are Accused to bee most guilty, ever jarring And opposite to peace.

_Fr. Jhon_. The faults in him.

_Fr. Rich_. As in all other thinges, so even in this Hee still is apt to wronge mee.

_Fr. Jhon_. Hee that fyrst gives th'occation, fyrst complaines: It ever was his fashion.

_Fr. Rich_. Never myne: I appeale to the whole covent.

_Abbot_. Mallyce rooted, I finde, is woondrous hard to bee supprest. But knwe where consell and advise preveyle not, The fayrest meanes that I can wourk your peace, I'l take upon mee my authority, And where I finde in you the least contempt I shall severely punishe.

_Fr. Jhon_. I submitt.

_Fr. Rich_. I yeeld myself to your grave fatherhood.

_Abbot_. Consider, sonnes, this cloystered place of ours Is but newe reared; the founder, hee still lyves, A souldier once and eminent in the feild, And after many battayles nowe retyrd In peace to lyve a lyff contemplative. Mongst many other charitable deedes, Unto religion hee hathe vowed this howse, Next to his owne fayre mantion that adjoynes And parted only by a slender wall. Who knwes but that hee neighboring us so neare And havinge doone this unto pious ends, May carry over us and our behavioures An austere eye of censure?

_Fr. Jhon_. Fitt therefore Wee should bee in our actions cautelous.[60]

_Fr. Rich_. And carefull least wee may incurr displeasure Of such a noble patron.

_Abbot_. Well observ'd. His bewtious Lady--

_Fr. Jhon_. A sweete soule indeede.

_Fr. Rich_. On whom Fryar _Jhon_ casts many a leering eye: I have observd that too.

_Abbot_. Boath for her outward feature And for her inward graces excellent Beyond compare, shee lykewyse is to us A worthy benefactor.

_Fr. Rich_. Tis confest.

_Fr. Jhon_. Would I might com to bee her confessor: It is a fayre sweete lady.

_Fr. Rich_.[61] Howe the lecher Hugges at the very name.

_Abbot_. Morninge and eveninge They deyly com to mattens and to evensonge; Such and so greate is theire devotion. That, if not crasd or feylinge in theire healthe, They do not misse us any hower of prayer; And therefore it behooves us all in generall To sett a carefull watche upon our deedes, Least we that are proffest religious Bee in the least deffective.

_Fr. Richard_. Noate, Fryar _Jhon_, Howe hee makes anticke faces and in scorne Of this your reverent counsell.

_Fr. Jhon_. I, alas? A weaknes from my childhood, I confesse, I ever had and cannott helpe it nowe, To have a trobled countenance. I make mouthes? This (most observed father) but approoves My innosens and his envye. Markt you that? Fryar _Richard_ bent his fyst and threatned mee. I call all these to witnesse.

_Fr. Rich_. No such thinge. I have a crampe oft takes me in this hand And makes mee weare clutcht ringers, and that passion Now came upon mee; but for meanacinge him It ever was farr from mee. This but showes His owld inveterate mallice, which in charity I wishe might heare lye buried.--Syrrah, anon I'l have you by the eares.

_Fr. Jhon_. Doo if thou darst; We'll tugge it out by the teeth.

_Fr. Rich_. Meete me i'th orchard Just after even song.

_Fr. Jhon_. I will make short prayers Bycause I'l keepe appointment.

_Abbot_. I am playne And breife with all: eather betwixt you too [_sic_] Make frendly reconsilement, and in presence Of this your brotherhood (for what is fryar But _frater_, and that's brother?), or my selfe Out of my power will putt you to a penance Shall make you in one weeke fyve fasting-dayes.

_Fr. Jhon_. Oh terrible!

_Abbot_. Or, if that will not tame you, I will complayne to'th fownder of your loosenes, Your riotts, and disorders, and petition That you, as sowers off seditious hatred[62] And sole disturbers of our common peace, Maye bee excluded this society, Banisht by common barre-law, and shutt out To publick shame and beggerye.

_Fr. Rich_. Horrible!

_Fr. Jhon_. Fyrst then to showe my submisse willingnes And forwardnes withall: with as much charity As any new reformed man maye doo, I with a zeale and hart new reconsiled Thus humbly begge his love. (Y'are a rogue, _Ritchard_.)

_Fr. Rich_. To meete his trewe And most unfeigned affection, heare in face And viewe of this our holly brotherhoode, As if in open coort with this mi[63] breath I heare confine all hatred. (_Jhon_, y'are a Jack sauce, I meane a sawcye Jacke.)

_Fr. Jhon_. The orchard.

_Fr. Rich_. Theare.

_Abbot_. Why, this is as it should bee, and becomes A trew religious order. Such as are sequestred And vowed unto a strict monasticke lyfe, Ought to putt off these grosse and prophane sinnes Most frequent amongst laye-men. Unity, Due conformation and fraternall love. Devotion, hott zeale, and obediens; these Are vertues that become a cloyster best. Nowe lett's retyre unto our oresons And p[r]eye for our good fownders; may they still Grow to our wishe and thryve to theire owne will.

[_Exeunt all but Friar Jhon_.