Part 14

O. MOUN. Nor I for thee, Clare, not of this: What! hast thou fed me all this while with shalls[275] And com'st to tell me now, thou lik'st it not?

CLARE. I do not hold thy offer competent: Nor do I like the assurance of thy land, The title is so brangled with thy debts.

O. MOUN. Too good for thee: and, knight, thou know'st it well, I fawn'd not on thee for thy goods, not I, 'Twas thine own motion; that thy wife doth know.

L. CLARE. Husband, it was so; he lies not in that.

CLARE. Hold thy chat, quean.

O. MOUN. To which I hearkened willingly, and the rather, Because I was persuaded it proceeded From love thou bor'st to me and to my boy; And gav'st him free access unto thy house. Where he hath not behav'd him to thy child, But as befits a gentleman to do: Nor is my poor distressed state so low, That I'll shut up my doors, I warrant thee.

CLARE. Let it suffice, Mounchensey. I mislike it; Nor think thy son a match fit for my child.

O. MOUN. I tell thee, Clare, his blood is good and clear, As the best drop that panteth in thy veins: But for this maid, thy fair and virtuous child, She is no more disparag'd by thy baseness, Than the most orient and most[276] precious jewel, Which still retains his lustre and his beauty. Although a slave were owner of the same.

CLARE. She is the last is left me to bestow; And her I mean to dedicate to God.

O. MOUN. You do, sir?

CLARE. Sir, sir, I do; she is mine own.

O. MOUN. And pity she is so: Damnation dog thee and thy wretched pelf! [_Aside._

CLARE. Not thou, Mounchensey, shalt bestow my child.

O. MOUN. Neither shall'st[277] thou bestow her where thou meanest.

CLARE. What wilt thou do?

O. MOUN. No matter, let that be; I will do that, perhaps, shall anger thee: Thou hast wrong'd my love, and, by God's blessed angel, Thou shalt well know it.

CLARE. Tut, brave not me.

O. MOUN. Brave thee, base churl! were't not for manhood sake-- I say no more, but that there be some by Whose blood is hotter than ours is, Which, being stirr'd might make us both repent This foolish meeting. But, Harry Clare, Although thy father hath abus'd my friendship, Yet I love thee--I do, my noble boy, I do, i' faith.

L. CLARE. Ay, do, do: fill all the world with talk of us, man; man, I never looked for better at your hands.

FAB. I hop'd your great experience and your years Would have prov'd patience rather to your soul, Than with this frantic and untamed passion To whet their skeins;[278] and, but for that I hope their friendships are too well confirm'd. And their minds temper'd with more kindly heat, Than for their forward parent's frowardness, That they should break forth into public brawls. Howe'er the rough hand of the untoward world Hath moulded your proceedings in this matter, Yet I am sure the first intent was love: Then since the first spring was so sweet and warm, Let it die gently: ne'er kill it with scorn.

RAY. O, thou base world! how leprous is that soul, That is once lim'd in that polluted mud! O Sir Arthur! you have startled his free active spirit With a too sharp spur for his mind to bear. Have patience, sir; the remedy to woe Is to leave that of force we must forego.

MIL. And I must take a twelvemonth's approbation, That in the meantime this sole and private life At the year's end may fashion me a wife. But, sweet Mounchensey, ere this year be done, Thou'st be a friar, if that I be a nun. And, father, ere young Jerningham's I'll be. I will turn mad to spite both him and thee. [_Aside._

CLARE. Wife, come to horse; and, huswife, make you ready: For if I live, I swear by this good light, I'll see you lodg'd in Cheston House to-night. [_Exeunt._

O. MOUN. Raymond, away; thou see'st how matters fall. Churl, hell consume thee, and thy pelf and all!

FAB. Now, Master Clare, you see how matters fadge;[279] Your Millicent must needs be made a nun. Well, sir, we are the men must ply the match: Hold you your peace, and be a looker-on: And send her unto Cheston, when[280] he will, I'll send me fellows of a handful high Into the cloisters, where the nuns frequent, Shall make them skip like does about the dale; And make the lady prioress of the house To play at leap-frog naked in her smock,[281] Until the merry wenches at their mass Cry teehee, weehee; And tickling these mad lasses in their flanks, Shall sprawl and squeak, and pinch their fellow-nuns. Be lively, boys, before the wench we lose, I'll make the abbess wear the canon's hose. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ HARRY CLARE, FRANK JERNINGHAM. PETER FABEL, _and_ MILLICENT.

H. CLARE. Spite now hath done her worst; sister, be patient.

JER. Forewarn'd poor Raymond's company! O heaven! When the composure of weak frailty meet[s] Upon this mart of dirt, O, then weak love Must in her own unhappiness be silent, And wink on all deformities.

MIL. 'Tis well: Where's Raymond, brother? Where's my dear Mounchensey? Would we might weep together, and then part, One[282] sighing parley would much ease my heart.

FAB. Sweet beauty, fold your sorrows in the thought Of future reconcilement: let your tears Show you a woman, but no[283] farther spent Than from the eyes: for sweet experience says That love is firm, that's flatter'd with delays.

MIL. Alas! sir, think you I shall e'er be his?

FAB. As sure as parting smiles on future bliss. Yond comes my friend; see, he hath doated So long upon your beauty, that your want Will with a pale retirement waste his blood: For in true love music doth sweetly dwell: Sever'd, these less worlds bear within them hell.

_Enter_ MOUNCHENSEY.

MOUN. Harry and Frank, you are enjoined to wean Your friendship from me: we must part; the breath Of ill[284] advis'd corruption, pardon me. Faith, I must say so; you may think I love you, I breathe not rougher spite to sever us; We'll meet by stealth, sweet friend, by stealth you twain; Kisses are sweetest got by struggling pain.

JER. Our friendship dies not, Raymond.

MOUN. Pardon me: I am busied; I have lost my faculties, And buried them in Millicent's clear eyes.

MIL. Alas! sweet love, what shall become of me? I must to Cheston to the nunnery, I shall ne'er see thee more.

MOUN. How, sweet! I'll be thy votary, we'll often meet: This kiss divides us, and breathes soft adieu-- This be a double charm to keep both true.

FAB. Have done: your fathers may chance spy your parting. Refuse not you by any means, good sweetness, To go into the nunnery, for from hence Must we beget your love's sweet happiness. You shall not stay there long: your harder bed Shall be more soft, when nun and maid are dead.

_Enter_ BILBO.

MOUN. Now, sirrah, what's the matter?

BIL. Marry, you must to horse presently; that villanous old gouty churl, Sir Arthur Clare, longs till he be at the nunnery.

H. CLARE. How, sir?

BIL.[285] O, I cry you mercy, he is your father, sir, indeed; but I am sure that there's less affinity betwixt your two natures than there is between a broker and a cutpurse.

MOUN. Bring me my gelding, sirrah.

BIL. Well, nothing grieves me, but for the poor wench; she must now cry _vale_ to lobster-pies, artichokes, and all such meats of mortality. Poor gentlewoman! the sign must not be in _virgo_ any longer with her, and that me grieves: farewell.

Poor Millicent Must pray and repent: O fatal wonder! She'll now be no fatter, Love must not come at her, Yet she shall be kept under. [_Exit._

JER. Farewell, dear Raymond.

H. CLARE. Friend, adieu.

MIL. Dear sweet. No joy enjoys my heart till we next meet. [_Exeunt._

FAB. Well, Raymond, now the tide of discontent Beats in thy face; but, ere't be long, the wind Shall turn the flood. We must to Waltham Abbey. And as fair Millicent in Cheston lives A most unwilling nun, so thou shalt there Become a beardless novice, to what end, Let time and future accidents declare. Taste thou my sleights: thy love I'll only share.

MOUN. Turn friar? Come, my good counsellor, let's go, Yet that disguise will hardly shroud my woe. [_Exeunt._

_Enter the_ PRIORESS OF CHESTON, _with a nun or_ _two_, SIR ARTHUR CLARE, SIR RALPH JERNINGHAM, HENRY _and_ FRANK, LADY CLARE, BILBO, _with_ MILLICENT.

L. CLARE. Madam, The love unto this holy sisterhood And our confirm'd opinion of your zeal Hath truly won us to bestow our child Rather on this than any neighbouring cell.

PRI. Jesus' daughter, Mary's child, Holy matron, woman mild, For thee a mass shall still be said, Every sister drop a bead; And those again succeeding them For you shall sing a _Requiem_.

FRANK. The wench is gone, Harry; she is no more a woman of this world. Mark her well, she looks like a nun already: what think'st on her?

HAR. By my faith, her face comes handsomely to't. But peace, let's hear the rest.

SIR ARTH. Madam, for a twelvemonth's approbation, We mean to make this trial of our child. Your care and our dear blessing, in meantime, We pray may prosper this intended work.

PRI. May your happy soul be blithe, That so truly pay your tithe: He that many children gave, 'Tis fit that he one child should have. Then, fair virgin, hear my spell, For I must your duty tell.

MIL. Good men and true, stand together, And hear your charge. [_Aside._

PRI. First, a-mornings take your book, The glass wherein yourself must look; Your young thoughts, so proud and jolly, Must be turn'd to motions holy; For your busk attires and toys, Have your thoughts on heavenly joys: And for all your follies past, You must do penance, pray and fast.

BIL. Let her take heed of fasting; and if ever she hurt herself with praying, I'll ne'er trust beast.

[_Aside._

MIL. This goes hard, by'r Lady!

PRI. You shall ring the sacring-bell,[286] Keep your hours and toll[287] your knell, Rise at midnight to your matins, Read your psalter, sing your latins; And when your blood shall kindle pleasure, Scourge yourself in plenteous measure.

MIL. Worse and worse, by Saint Mary! [_Aside._

FRANK. Sirrah Hal, how does she hold her countenance? Well, go thy ways, if ever thou prove a nun, I'll build an abbey. [_Aside._

HAR. She may be a nun; but if ever she prove an anchoress, I'll dig her grave with my nails.

[_Aside._

FRANK. To her again, mother. [_Aside._

HAR. Hold thine own, wench. [_Aside._

PRI. You must read the morning mass, You must creep unto the cross,[288] Put cold ashes on your head, Have a hair-cloth for your bed.

BIL. She had rather have a man in her bed.

PRI. Bind your beads, and tell your needs, Your holy _aves_ and your creeds: Holy maid, this must be done, If you mean to live a nun.

MIL. The holy maid will be no nun. [_Aside._

SIR ARTH. Madam, we have some business of import, And must be gone; Will't please you take my wife into your closet, Who farther will acquaint you with my mind: And so, good madam, for this time adieu.

[_Exeunt women and_ SIR ARTHUR.

SIR RALPH. Well now, Frank Jerningham, how sayest thou?[289] To be brief-- What wilt thou say for all this, if we two, Her father and myself, can bring about, That we convert this nun to be a wife, And thou the husband to this pretty nun? How then, my lad, ha? Frank, it may be done.

HAR. Ay, now it works.

FRANK. O God, sir! you amaze me at your words; Think with yourself, sir, what a thing it were To cause a recluse to remove her vow: A sainted,[290] contrite, and repentant soul, Ever mortified with fasting and with prayer, Whose thoughts, even as her eyes, are fix'd on heaven. To draw a virgin thus devout with zeal Back to the world: O impious deed! Nor by the canon-law can it be done Without a dispensation from the church; Besides, she is so prone unto this life, As she'll even shriek to hear a husband nam'd.

BIL. Ay, a poor innocent, she! Well, here's no knavery; He flouts the old fools to their teeth. [_Aside._

SIR RALPH. Boy, I am glad to hear Thou mak'st such scruple of thy[291] conscience; And in a man so young as is yourself, I promise you 'tis very seldom seen. But, Frank, this is a trick, a mere device-- A sleight plotted betwixt her father and myself To thrust Mounchensey's nose beside the cushion;[292] That being thus debarr'd of all access. Time yet may work him from her thoughts, And give thee ample scope to thy desires.

BIL. A plague on you both for a couple of Jews.

[_Aside._

HAR. How now, Frank, what say you to that?

FRANK. Let me alone, I warrant thee. [_To_ HARRY. Sir, assured that this motion doth proceed From your most kind and fatherly affection. I do dispose my liking to your pleasure: But for it is a matter of such moment As holy marriage, I must crave thus much, To have some conference with my ghostly father, Friar Hildersham hereby at Waltham Abbey, To be absolv'd of things, that it is fit None only but my confessor should know.

SIR RALPH. With all my heart. He is a reverend man. And to-morrow morning we will meet all at the abbey, Where by the opinion of that reverend man We will proceed; I like it passing well. Till then we part, boy. Ay, think of it; farewell. A parent's care no mortal tongue can tell. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ SIR ARTHUR CLARE, _and_ RAYMOND MOUNCHENSEY _like a friar_.

SIR ARTH. Holy young novice, I have told you now My full intent, and do refer the rest To your professed secrecy and care: And see, Our serious speech hath stolen upon the way, That we are come unto the abbey gate. Because I know Mounchensey is a fox, That craftily doth overlook my doings, I'll not be seen, not I; tush, I have done, I had a daughter, but she's now a nun. Farewell, dear son, farewell. [_Exit._

MOUN. Fare you well. Ay, you have done? Your daughter, sir, shall not be long a nun. O my rare tutor! never mortal brain Plotted out such a mesh[293] of policy; And my dear bosom is so great with laughter, Begot by his simplicity and error, My soul is fall'n in labour with her joy. O my friends, Frank Jerningham and Clare! Did you but know but how this jest takes fire-- That good Sir Arthur, thinking me a novice, Hath even pour'd himself into my bosom, O, you would vent your spleens with tickling mirth! But, Raymond, peace, and have an eye about, For fear perhaps some of the nuns look out. Peace and charity within, Never touch'd with deadly sin; I cast holy water pure On this wall and on this door, That from evil shall defend, And keep you from the ugly fiend: Evil sprite, by night nor day, Shall approach or come this way; Elf nor fairy, by this grace, Day nor night shall haunt this place. Holy maidens--[294] [_Knocks._

[_Answer within._] Who's that which knocks? ha, who's there?

MOUN. Gentle nun, here is a friar.

_Enter_ NUN.

NUN. A friar without? now Christ us save! Holy man, what wouldst thou have?

MOUN. Holy maid, I hither come From friar and father Hildersham, By the favour and the grace Of the prioress of this place, Amongst you all to visit one That's come for approbation; Before she was as now you are, The daughter of Sir Arthur Clare, But since she now became a nun, Call'd Millicent of Edmonton.[295]

NUN. Holy man, repose you there; This news I'll to our abbess bear, To tell her what a man is sent, And your message and intent.

MOUN. Benedicite.

NUN. Benedicite. [_Exit._

MOUN. Do, my good plump wench; if all fall right, I'll make your sisterhood one less by night. Now, happy fortune, speed this merry drift, I like a wench comes roundly to her shrift.

_Enter_ LADY _and_ MILLICENT.

LADY. Have friars recourse then to the house of nuns?

MIL. Madam, it is the order of this place, When any virgin comes for approbation (Lest that for fear or such sinister practice She should be forc'd to undergo this veil, Which should proceed from conscience and devotion), A visitor is sent from Waltham House, To take the true confession of the maid.

LADY. Is that the order? I commend it well: You to your shrift, I'll back unto the cell. [_Exit._

MOUN. Life of my soul! bright angel!

MIL. What means the friar?

MOUN. O Millicent, 'tis I.

MIL. 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.

MOUN. Mounchensey, thy true friend.

MIL. 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 cam'st thou to assume this shape?

MOUN. By means of Peter Fabel, my kind tutor, Who in the habit of friar Hildersham, Frank Jerningham's old friend and confessor, Plotted by Frank, by Fabel, and myself, And so delivered to Sir Arthur Clare, Who brought me here unto the abbey-gate, To be his nun-made daughter's visitor.

MIL. You are all sweet traitors to my poor old father. O my dear life! I was a-dreamed to-night That, as I was praying in my psalter, There came a spirit unto me as I kneel'd, And by his strong persuasions tempted me To leave this nunnery: and methought 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.

MOUN. 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.

MIL. Well, visitor, lest that perhaps my mother Should think the friar too strict in his decrees, I this confess to my sweet ghostly father; If chaste pure love be sin, I must confess, I have offended three years now with thee.

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

MIL. I' faith, I cannot.

MOUN. 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 yourself 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.

MIL. Sweet life, farewell, 'tis done, let that suffice; What my tongue fails, I send thee by mine eyes. [_Exit._

_Enter_ FABEL,[296] YOUNG CLARE, _and_ JERNINGHAM.

JER. Now, visitor, how does this new-made nun?

Y. CLARE. Come, come, how does she, noble capuchin?

MOUN. 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.

FAB. But how, Mounchensey, how, lad, for the wench?

MOUN. Zounds, lads, i'faith I thank my holy habit-- I have confess'd her, and the lady prioress Hath given me ghostly counsel with her blessing. And how say ye, boys, If I be chose the weekly visitor?

Y. CLARE. Blood! she'll have ne'er a nun unbagg'd to sing mass then.

JER. The Abbot of Waltham will have as many children to put to nurse as he has calves in the marsh.

MOUN. Well, to be brief, the nun will soon at night turn tippet;[297] if I can but devise to quit her cleanly of the nunnery, she is mine own.

FAB. But, sirrah Raymond, what news of Peter Fabel at the house?

MOUN. Tush, he is the only man, a necromancer and a conjuror, that works for young Mounchensey altogether; and if it be not for friar Benedic, that he can cross him by his learned skill, the wench is gone, Fabel will fetch her out by very magic.

FAB. Stands the wind there, boy? keep them in that key, The wench is ours before to-morrow day. Well, Harry[298] and Frank, as ye are gentlemen, Stick to us close this once; you know your fathers Have men and horse lie ready still at Cheston, To watch the coast be clear, to scout about, And have an eye unto Mounchensey's walks: Therefore you two may hover thereabouts, And no man will suspect you for the matter: Be ready but to take her at our hands, Leave us to scamble[299] for her getting out.

JER. Blood! if all Hertfordshire were at our heels, we'll carry her away in spite of them.

Y. CLARE. But whither, Raymond?

MOUN. To Brian's upper lodge in Enfield Chase; He is mine honest friend, and a tall keeper; I'll send my man unto him presently, To acquaint him with your coming and intent.

FAB. Be brief and secret.

MOUN. Soon at night remember You bring your horses to the willow ground.

JER. 'Tis done, no more.

Y. CLARE. We will not fail the hour: My life and fortune now lie in your power.

FAB. About our business! Raymond, let's away, Think of your hour: it draws well off the day. [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ BLAGUE, BANKS, SMUG, _and_ SIR JOHN.

BLAGUE. Come, ye Hungarian[300] pilchers, we are once more come under the Zona Torrida of the forest; let's be resolute; let's fly to and again; and the devil come, we'll put him to his interrogatories, and not budge a foot. What! foot, I'll put fire into you, ye shall all three serve the good Duke of Norfolk.

SMUG. Mine host, my bully, my precious consul, my noble Holofernes, I have been drunk in thy house twenty times and ten; all's one for that: I was last night in the third heaven, my brain was poor, it had yeast in't, but now I am a man of action; is't not so, lad?

BANKS. Why, now, thou hast two of the liberal sciences about thee, wit and reason, thou mayest serve the Duke of Europe.

SMUG. I will serve the Duke of Christendom, and do him more credit in his cellar than all the plate in his buttery; is't not so, lad?

SIR JOHN. Mine host and Smug, stand there: Banks, you and your horse keep together, but lie close, show no tricks for fear of the keeper. If we be scared, we'll meet in the church-porch at Enfield.

SMUG. Content, Sir John.

BANKS. Smug, dost not thou remember the tree thou fellest out of last night?

SMUG. Tush, and't had been as high as an abbey, I should ne'er have hurt myself; I have fallen into the river coming home from Waltham, and 'scaped drowning.

SIR JOHN. Come, sever, fear no spirits, we'll have a buck presently; we have watched later than this for a doe, mine host.

HOST. Thou speakest as true as velvet.

SIR JOHN. Why then come, grass and hay! &c.[301] [_Exeunt._

_Enter_ YOUNG CLARE, JERNINGHAM, _and_ MILLICENT.

Y. CLARE. Frank Jerningham!