more
Then I would apprehend with willingnes;
But though prevention canott helpe what's past,
Conjugall faythe may expresse itself at last.
[_Exit Lady_.

_D'Av_. Why, _Denis_, ho! awake and ryse in hast!

_Denis_. What, is your Lordshipp madd!

_D'Av_. Knowest thou what's past
And canst thou skape this danger?

_Denis_. Did I not tell you
That all was safe, the body too disposed
Better then in his grave?

_D'Av_. Strange thoughts sollicite mee.
Upp and inquire about the cloyster wall
What noyse thou hearest, if any private whisperinge
Or louder uprore 'bout the murder ryse.

_Denis_. I shall, I shall, Syr. [_Exit Dennis_.

_D'Av_. Guilt, thoughe it weare a smooth and peacefull face,
Yet is within full of seditious thoughts
That makes continuall follie. [_Exit_.

_Enter Fryar Richard with Fryar Jhon upon his backe_.

_Fr. Rich_. This is the porch that leades into the hall;
Heare rest for thyne and myne own better ease.
This havinge done, to prevent deathe and shame
By the same stepps I'l back the way I came.

[_Fryer sett up and left. Exit_.

_Enter Denis half unredy_.

_Denis_. This is the penalty belonges to servyce:
Masters still plott to theire owne private ends,
And wee that are theire slaves and ministers
Are cheef still in the troble; they ingrosse
The pleasure and the proffitt, and wee only
The swett and payne. My Lord hath doon a mischeef
And nowe I must not sleepe.--What art thou?
None of the howse sure, I should knwe thy face then:
Beesydes my Lord gives no such lyverye.
Nowe in the name of heaven, what art thou? speake,
Speake if thou beest a man! or if a ghost
Then glyde hence lyke a shadowe! tis the--oh!--
The fryar hathe nimbly skipt back over the wall,
Hath lyke a surly Justyce bensht himself
And sitts heare to accuse uss! where's my Lord?
Helpe, Helpe! his murdered ghost is com from Hell
On earth to cry _Vindicta_![143]

_Enter L. D'Averne_.

_D'Av_. What clamors this?

_Denis_. Oh Syr--

_D'Av_. Why, howe is't, _Denis_?

_Denis_. Never woorse--the fryar, Syr--

_D'Av_. What of him?

_Denis_. The slave that would not leive the place but carried,
Is of himself com back.

_D'Av_. Whether?

_Denis_. Looke theere.

_D'Av_. That which I took to bee meare fantasy
I finde nowe to bee real; murder is
A cryinge sinne, and canot be conceal'd.
Yet his returne is straunge.

_Denis_, 'Tis most pr