SCENE I. Cheston Priory.
[Enter the Prioress of Cheston, with a Nun or two, Sir Arthur
Clare, Sir Raph Jerningham, Henry and Francke, the Lady, and
Bilbo, with Millisent.]
LADY CLARE.
Madam,
The love unto this holy sisterhood,
And our confirmd opinion of your zeal
Hath truly won us to bestow our Child
Rather on this then any neighbouring Cell.
PRIORESS.
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 thinkst on her?
HARRY. By my faith, her face comes handsomely to 't. But peace, let's hear the rest.
SIR ARTHUR.
Madam, for a twelvemonths approbation,
We mean to make this trial of our child.
Your care and our dear blessing in mean time
We pray may prosper this intended work.
PRIORESS.
May your happy soul be blithe,
That so truly pay your tithe:
He who many children gave,
Tis fit that he one child should have.
Then, fair virgin, hear my spell,
For I must your duty tell.
MILLISCENT.
—Good men and true, stand together, and hear your charge.
PRIORESS.
First, a mornings take your book,
The glass wherein your self must look;
Your young thoughts, so proud and jolly,
Must be turnd 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.
BILBO. —Let her take heed of fasting; and if ever she hurt her self with praying, I'll ne'er trust beast.
MILLISCENT.
—This goes hard, berladye!
PRIORESS.
You shall ring the sacring bell,
Keep your hours, and tell your knell,
Rise at midnight at your matins,
Read your Psalter, sing your latins,
And when your blood shall kindle pleasure,
Scourge your self in plenteous measure.
MILLISCENT.
—Worse and worse, by Saint Mary.
FRANK. —Sirra Hal, how does she hold her countenance? Well, go thy ways, if ever thou prove a Nun, I'll build an Abbey.
HARRY. —She may be a Nun; but if ever she prove an Anchoress, I'll dig her grave with my nails.
FRANK.
—To her again, mother!
HARRY.
—Hold thine own, wench!
PRIORESS.
You must read the mornings mass,
You must creep unto the Cross,
Put cold ashes on your head,
Have a hair cloth for your bed.
BILBO.
—She had rather have a man in her bed.
PRIORESS.
Bid your beads, and tell your needs,
Your holy Avies, and you Creeds;
Holy maid, this must be done,
If you mean to live a Nun.
MILLISCENT.
—The holy maid will be no Nun.
SIR ARTHUR.
Madam, we have some business of import,
And must be gone.
Wilt please you take my wife into your closet,
Who further will acquaint you with my mind;
And so, good madam, for this time adieu.
[Exeunt women.]
SIR RALPH.
Well now, Francke Jerningham, how sayest thou?
To be brief,—
What wilt thou say for all this, if we two,
Her father and my self, 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, Francke, it may be done.
HARRY.
—Aye, now it works.
FRANCKE.
O God, sir, you amaze me at your words;
Think with your self, sir, what a thing it were
To cause a recluse to remove her vow:
A maimed, contrite, and repentant soul,
Ever mortified with fasting and with prayer,
Whose thoughts, even as her eyes, are fixd on heaven,
To draw a virgin, thus devour'd 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 named.
BILBO. Aye, a poor innocent she! Well, here's no knavery; he flouts the old fools to their teeth.
SIR RAPH.
Boy, I am glad to hear
Thou mak'st such scruple of that conscience;
And in a man so young as in your self,
I promise you tis very seldom seen.
But Franke, this is a trick, a mere devise,
A sleight plotted betwixt her father and my self,
To thrust Mounchensey's nose besides the cushion;
That, being thus behard of all access,
Time yet may work him from her thoughts,
And give thee ample scope to thy desires.
BILBO.
—A plague on you both for a couple of Jews!
HENRY.
—How now, Franke, what say you to that?
FRANCKE.
—Let me alone, I warrant thee.—
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 iwth my ghostly father,
Friar Hildersham, here by, at Waltham Abbey,
To be absolude of things that it is fit
None only but my confessor should know.
SIR RAPH.
With all my heart: he is a reverend man;
And to morrorw morning we will meet all at the Abbey,
Where by th' opinion of that reverend man
We will proceed; I like it passing well.
Till then we part, boy; aye, think of it; farewell!
A parent's care no mortal tongue can tell.
[Exeunt.]
SCENE II. Before the Priory Gate.
[Enter Sir Arthur Clare, and Raymond Mounchensey, like a
Friar.]
SIR ARTHUR.
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 Mountchensey 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.
MOUNTCHENSEY.
Fare you well!—Aye, you have done!
Your daughter, sir, shall not be long a Nun.
O my rare Tutor! never mortal brain
Plotted out such a mass of policy;
And my dear bosom is so great with laughter,
Begot by his simplicity and error,
My soul is fallen in labour with her joy.
O my true friends, Franke Jerningham and Clare,
Did you now know but how this jest takes fire—
That good sir Arthur, thinking me a novice,
Hath even poured 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't with deadly sin;
I cast my holy water pure
On this wall and on this door,
That from evil shall defend,
And keep you from the ugly fiend:
Evil spirit, 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!
[Knock.]
[Answer within.] Who's that which knocks? ha, who's there?
MOUNTCHENSEY.
Gentle Nun, here is a Friar.
[Enter Nun.]
NUN.
A Friar without, now Christ us save!
Holy man, what wouldst thou have?
MOUNTCHENSEY.
Holy maid, I hither come
From Friar and father Hildersome,
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 Nune,
Call'd Milliscnet of Edmunton.
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.
MOUNTCHENSEY.
Benedicite.
NUN.
Benedicite.
[Exit.]
MOUNTCHENSEY.
Do, my good plump wench; if all fall right,
I'll make your sister-hood one less by night.
Now happy fortune speed this merry drift,
I like a wench comes roundly to her shrift.
[Enter Lady, Milliscent.]
LADY.
Have Friars recourse then to the house of Nuns?
MILLISCENT.
Madam, it is the order of this place,
When any virgin comes for approbation,—
Lest that for fear or such sinister practise
She should be forced 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.]
MOUNTCHENSEY.
Life of my soul! bright Angel!
MILLISCENT.
What means the Friar?
MOUNTCHENSEY.
O Milliscent, tis I.
MILLISCENT.
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.
MOUNTCHENSEY.
Mountchensey, thy true friend.
MILLISCENT.
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 camst thou to assume this shape?
MOUNTCHENSEY.
By means of Peter Fabell, my kind Tutor,
Who in the habit of Friar Hildersham,
Franke Jerningham's old friend and confessor,
Helped me to act the part of priestly novice,
Plotted by Franke, by Fabell and my self,
And so delivered to Sir Arthur Clare,
Who brought me here unto the Abbey gate,
To be his Nun-made daughter's visitor.
MILLISCENT.
You are all sweet traitors to my poor old father.
O my dear life! I was a dream't to night
That, as I was a praying in mine Psalter,
There came a spirit unto me as I kneeled,
And by his strong persuasions tempted me
To leave this Nunry; and me thought
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.
MOUNTCHENSEY.
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!
MILLISCENT.
Well, visitor, lest that perhaps my mother
Should think the Friar too strickt in his decrees,
I this confess to my sweet ghostly father:
If chast pure love be sin, I must confess,
I have offended three years now with thee.
MOUNTCHENSEY.
But do you yet repent you of the same?
MILLISCENT.
Yfaith, I cannot.
MOUNTCHENSEY.
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 your self
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.
MILLISCENT.
Sweet life, farewell! Tis done: let that suffice;
What my tongue fails, I send thee by mine eyes.
[Exit]
[Enter Fabell, Clare, and Jerningham.]
JERNINGHAM.
Now, Visitor, how does this new made Nun?
CLARE.
Come, come, how does she, noble Capouchin?
MOUNTCHENSEY.
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.
FABELL.
But how, Mountchensey? how, lad, for the wench?
MOUNTCHENSEY.
Sound, lads, yfaith; I thank my holy habit,
I have confest 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?
CLARE.
Z'blood, she'll have nere a Nun unbagd to sing mass then.
JERNINGHAM. The Abbot of Waltham will have as many Children to put to nurse as he has calves in the Marsh.
MOUNTCHENSEY. Well, to be brief, the Nun will soon at night turn tippit; if I can but devise to quit her cleanly of the Nunry, she is mine own.
FABELL.
But, Sirra Raymond,
What news of Peter Fabell at the house?
MOUNTCHENSEY.
Tush, he's the only man;
A Necromancer and a Conjurer
That works for young Mountchensey altogether;
And if it be not for Friar Benedick,
That he can cross him by his learned skill,
The Wench is gone;
Fabell will fetch her out by very magick.
FABELL.
Stands the wind there, boy? keep them in that key.
The wench is ours before to-morrow day.
Well, Hal and Frank, as ye are gentlemen,
Stick to us close this once! You know your fathers
Have men and horse lie ready still at Chesson,
To watch the coast be clear, to scout about,
And have an eye unto Mountchensey's walks:
Therefore you two may hover thereabouts,
And no man will uspect you for the matter;
Be ready but to take her at our hands,
Leave us to scamble for her getting out.
JERNINGHAM.
Z'blood, if all Herford-shire were at our heels,
We'll carry her away in spite of them.
CLARE.
But whither, Raymond?
MOUNTCHENSEY.
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
T' acquaint him with your coming and intent.
FABELL.
Be brief and secret.
MOUNTCHENSEY.
Soon at night remember
You bring your horses to the willow ground.
JERNINGHAM.
Tis done; no more!
CLARE.
We will not fail the hour.
My life and fortune now lies in your power.
FABELL.
About our business! Raymond, let's away!
Think of your hour; it draws well of the day.
[Exit.]