knowes the rest
Take notyce what a loose man I am growne.
Nay prithee, sweete fryar _Jhon_, I am in hast,
Horrible hast; doo but release mee nowe,
I am thy frend for ever. What! not heare!
Feigne to bee deaf of purpose, and of slight!
Then heare is that shall rouse you. Are you falne?
[_Eather[141] strykes him with a staffe or casts a stone_.
What, and still mute and sylent? nay, not styrr?
I'l rowse you with a vengance! not one limbe
To doo his woonted offyce, foot nor hand?
Not a pulse beatinge, no breathe? what no motion?
Oh mee of all men lyvinge most accurst!
I have doon a fearefull murder, which our former
Inveterate hate will be a thousand testats
That I for that insidiated his lyfe.
The deedes apparant and the offens past pardon.
There's nowe no waye but fly: but fly! which way?
The cloyster gates are all bar'd and fast lockt;
These suddeine mischieffes shuld have suddeine shifts.
About it breyne and in good tyme. I hate![142]
Suspitious rumors have bene lately spread
And more then whispered of th'incontinent love
Fryar _Jhon_ boare to the knight's Lady. Had I meanes
Howe to conveighe his body o'er the wall
To any or the least part of the howse,
It might bee thought the knight in jelosy
Had doone this murder in a just revendge.
Let me surveighe th'ascent: happy occation!
To see howe redy still the devill is
To helpe his servants! heare's a ladder left:
Upp, Fryare, my purpose is to admitt you nowe
Of a newe cloyster. I will sett his body
Upright in the knights porche and leave my patron
To answer for the falt, that hath more strength
Then I to tugge with Benches.
[_Exit. Carry him up_.

_Enter the knight, half unredy, his Lady after him_.

_D'Avern_. Ho, _Denis_!

_Lady_. Give mee reason, I intreate,
Of these unquiet sleepes.

_D'Av_. You dogg mee, Lady,
Lyke an Ill genius.

_Lady_. You weare woont to call mee
Your better angel.

_D'Av_. So I shall doo still,
Would you beetake you to your quiet sleepes
And leave mee to my wakinges.

_Lady_. There beelonges
Unto one bedd so sweete a sympathy,
I canott rest without you.

_D'Av_. To your chamber!
There may growe els a woorse antypathy
Beetwixt your love and myne: I tell you, Lady,
Myne is no woman's busines. No reply:
Your least insured presence att this tyme
Will but begett what you would loathe to beare,
Quarrell and harshe unkindnes.

_Lady_. Ever your lipps
Have bene too mee a lawe.--I suspect