The things we do!

_Abbott_. Morrow, soonns,
An early blessinge on you, if as the larke
Rysen beetymes still to salute the soon,
So your devotion pluckes you from your bedds
Beefore your hower unto your orisons.
Did you not heare a musicall complaynt
Of women that in sadd and mournefull tones
Bewayld theire late disasters, harshly answerd
By a churlish echo?
_Fr. Jhon_. Som such thinge wee heard.
_Fr. Rich_. The noates still persist with mee.
_Pal_. There appeares
In his grave lookes bothe zeele and charity;
Letts to his sight boldly expose ourselfes.
Hayle, reverent father!
_Abbot_. What are you poore soules
Thus wett and wether-bitt?
_Scrib_. Ere you demand
Further from us, letts tast your Christian charity,
Som fyare, som harbor, least ere our sadd tale
Bee fully tould wee perishe.
_Abbot_. Why, whence came you?
_Pal_. From sea; our shipp last night in the great storme
Cast on these rocks and split; this the fyrst place
Exposed unto our eyes to begge releiff.
But oh I faynt.
_Abbot_. Some[76] faggotts instantly:
Hott brothes, hott water for them, and warme cloathes.


Pages:
142 143 144 145 146 147 148 149 150 151 152 153 154 155 156 157 158 159 160 161 162 163 164 165 166