_Lady_. Ever your lipps Have bene too mee a lawe.--I suspect 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 prodigious; The very thought of it hath put a cricke Into my necke allredy. _D'Av_. One further desperate tryall I will make And putt it too adventer. _Denis_. Pray hows that, Syr? _D'Av_. There's in my stable an ould stallion, once A lusty horse but now past servyce. _Denis_. Godd [_sic_], syr. _D'Av_. Him I'l have sadled and capparisond. Heare in the hall a rusty Armor hanges, Pistolls in rotten cases, an ould sword, And a cast lance to all these sutable. I'l have them instantly tooke downe.