ther lend som comfort to our grieffs
Or send us hence dispayringe and asham'd.

[_They go in_.

_Pal_. _Oh charity where art thou fled,
And nowe how longe hast thou been dead?

Answer within. Oh many many many hundred yeares

Scrib. In villadge, borrough, towne or citty
Remaines there yet no grace, no pitty?

Answ. Not in sighes, not in want, not in teares.

Pal. Cold comfort in this answer; but proceede.

Above. we see a threatninge skye.

Answ. Beelowe the winds and gusts blowe hye,
And all all to fright hence this same juell.

Scrib. The lightninges blast, the thunders cracke,
The billows menace nought save wracke.

Answ. And yet man is then these much more crewell.

Pal. Unless my judgment quite miscarry,
Shee may lyve in som monastery.

Answ. Tis a place too that was fyrst assigned her.

Scrib. If not amongst religious men,
Yett where, where shall wee seeks her then?

Answ. Yet even there, there, you scarce scarce can find her.

Pal. If chastity and Innocens tryde
Have boathe escaped wind and tyde--

Answ. Yet oh why should the land, land these cherish?

Scrib. Of whome even billowes have a care,
Whom seas preserve, whom tempests spare--

Answ. Yet these these amongst men may perishe._

_Pal_. Uncharitable echo! from a place
Of pure devotion canst thou answer that?
If not in these religious monasteries,
In what place can we find could charity?

_Scrib_. Where ere wee meete her shee is lyke our selfes,
Bare, without harbor, weake and comfortles.

_Enter Fryer John_.

_Fr. Jhon_. What singeinge beggers were those at the gate
That would so early rowse our charity,
Before it was half styrringe or awake?

_Enter Fryer Richard_.

I thinke I answerd them in such a way
As I beleeve scarce pleas'd them.

_Fr. Rich_. What sweete musick
Was that at the back gate hath cald mee upp
Somwhat before my hower?

_Fr. Jhon_. Morrow, fryar _Richard_:
Howe did you lyke our last night's buffetinge?
Whilst all the rest of our fraternity
In feare of that greate tempest weare att prayers,
Wee too pickt out that tyme of least suspition
And in the orchard hand to hand weare att it.

_Fr. Rich_. Tis trew for blooddy noses; and, Fryar _Jhon_,
As you lyke that which is allredy past
So chalendge mee hereafter. But whence cam
Those sweete and delicate voyces?

_Fr. Jhon_. I bare part
In theire sadd quire though none of these yet knw't.
But peace: our Father A