MOUN. To Brian's upper lodge in Enfield Chase; He is mine honest friend, and a tall keeper; I'll send my man unto him presently, To acquaint him with your coming and intent. FAB. Be brief and secret. MOUN. Soon at night remember You bring your horses to the willow ground. JER. 'Tis done, no more. Y. CLARE. We will not fail the hour: My life and fortune now lie in your power. FAB. About our business! Raymond, let's away, Think of your hour: it draws well off the day. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ BLAGUE, BANKS, SMUG, _and_ SIR JOHN. BLAGUE. Come, ye Hungarian[300] pilchers, we are once more come under the Zona Torrida of the forest; let's be resolute; let's fly to and again; and the devil come, we'll put him to his interrogatories, and not budge a foot. What! foot, I'll put fire into you, ye shall all three serve the good Duke of Norfolk. SMUG. Mine host, my bully, my precious consul, my noble Holofernes, I have been drunk in thy house twenty times and ten; all's one for that: I was last night in the third heaven, my brain was poor, it had yeast in't, but now I am a man of action; is't not so, lad? BANKS. Why, now, thou hast two of the liberal sciences about thee, wit and reason, thou mayest serve the Duke of Europe. SMUG. I will serve the Duke of Christendom, and do him more credit in his cellar than all the plate in his buttery; is't not so, lad? SIR JOHN. Mine host and Smug, stand there: Banks, you and your horse keep together, but lie close, show no tricks for fear of the keeper. If we be scared, we'll meet in the church-porch at Enfield. SMUG. Content, Sir John. BANKS. Smug, dost not thou remember the tree thou fellest out of last night? SMUG. Tush, and't had been as high as an abbey, I should ne'er have hurt myself; I have fallen into the river coming home from Waltham, and 'scaped drowning. SIR JOHN. Come, sever, fear no spirits, we'll have a buck presently; we have watched later than this for a doe, mine host. HOST. Thou speakest as true as velvet. SIR JOHN. Why then come, grass and hay! &c.[301] [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ YOUNG CLARE, JERNINGHAM, _and_ MILLICENT. Y. CLARE. Frank Jerningham! JER. Speak softly; rogue, how now? Y. CLARE. 'Sfoot, we shall lose our way, it's so dark: whereabouts are we? JER. Why, man, at Porter's gate, the way lies right: hark! the clock strikes at Enfield: what's the hour? Y. CLARE. Ten, the bell says. JER. A lie's in's throat, it was but eight when we set out of Cheston; Sir John and his sexton are at their ale to-night, the clock runs at random. Y. CLARE. Nay, as sure as thou liv'st, the villanous vicar is abroad in the chase this dark night: the stone priest steals more venison than half the country.