_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.
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