Classic Audiobook Collection - The Merry Devil of Edmonton by William Shakespeare ~ Full Audiobook [comedy]

Episode Date: April 29, 2025

The Merry Devil of Edmonton by William Shakespeare audiobook. Genre: comedy Set in the village of Edmonton on the outskirts of London, The Merry Devil of Edmonton is a bustling Elizabethan stage comedy of love, disguise, and good-natured mischief. At its center is Peter Fabell, a learned scholar with a reputation for sorcery, feared by gossips and respected by those who know his wry humor and sharp intelligence. When two young lovers, Raymond Mounchensey and Millicent Clare, find their match threatened by strict family plans and social expectation, Fabell becomes an unlikely ally, using his wit and theatrical tricks to outmaneuver proud fathers, suspicious townsfolk, and a string of would-be opportunists. Around them swirls a lively cast of innkeepers, friends, and local troublemakers, all eager to turn rumor into spectacle and profit. As schemes collide and identities blur, the play delights in the tension between appearance and reality, asking who truly holds power: the ones who boast and threaten, or the ones who understand people. Brisk, playful, and rooted in English village folklore, it offers a festive night of laughter where cleverness and affection drive the action. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 1 (00:28:40) Chapter 2 (00:45:04) Chapter 3 (01:00:23) Chapter 4 (01:16:36) Chapter 5 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Act 1 of The Merry Devil of Edmonton by William Shakespeare. The prologue Your silence and attention, worthy friends, that your free spirits may with more pleasing sense relish the life of this our active scene. To which intent to calm this murmuring breath we ring this round with our invoking spells. If that your listening ears be yet prepared to any, entertain the subject of our play, lend us your patience. Tis Peter Fable, a renowned scholar whose fame has still been hitherto forgot by all writers of this

latter age. In Middlesex, his birth and his abode, not full seven mile from this great famous city, that, for his fame in slight a magic one, was called the Merry Friend of Edmonton. If any here make doubt of such a name, in Edmonton, yet fresh unto this day, fixed in the wall of that old ancient church, his monument remaineth to be seen. His memory yet in the mouths of men that whilst he lived, he could deceive the devil. Imagine now that whilst he is retired from Cambridge back unto his native home, suppose the The silent sable visaged night casts her black curtain over all the world, and whilst he sleeps within his silent bed, tolled with the studies of the passard-day the very time and hour wherein

that spirit that many years attended his command, and often time twixt Cambridge in that town, had in a minute borne him through the air. By composition twixt the fiend and hymn comes now to claim the scholar for his due. Draw the curtains. Behold him here, laid on his restless couch, his fatal chime prepared at his head. His chamber guarded by these sable slights, and by him stands that necromanic chair

in which he makes his direful invocations and binds the fiends that shall obey his will. Sit with a pleasad eye Until you know the comic end Of our sad tragic show Exit Induction The chime goes

In which time Fable is oft seen To stare about him and hold up his hands What means the toiling of this fatal chime Oh, what a trembling horror strikes my heart My stiffened hair sits upright on my head, as do the bristles of a porcupine. Enter Corab, a spirit. Fable, awake, or I will bear thee hands headlong to hell.

Ha, ha, why dost thou wake me? Corab, is it thou? Tis I? I know thee well. I hear the watchful dogs, with hollow howling tell of thy approach. The lights burn dim, affrightened by thy presence. And this distempered and tempestuous night Tells me the air is troubled with some devil.

Come, art thou ready? Whither, or to what? Why, scholar, this the hour my date expires. I must depart and come to claim my dew. Ah, what is thy due? Fable, thy soul. Oh, let not darkness hear thee speak that word, lest that with force it hurry hence amain, and leave the world to look upon my woe. Yet overwhelm me with this globe of earth,

and let a little sparrow with her bill take but so much as she can bear away, that, every day thus losing of my load, I may again in time yet hope to rise. Didst thou not write thy name in thine own blood, And drewst the formal deed twigs thee and me? And is it not recorded now in hell? Why comest thou in this stern and horrid shape, Not in familiar form as thou wast wont? Because the date of thy command is out,

And I am master of thy skill, and thee. Correb, thou angry and impatient spirit, I have earnest business for a private friend. Reserve me, spirit, until some future time. I will not for the minds of all the earth. Then let me rise, and, ere I leave the world, dispatch some business that I have to do. And, in meantime, repose thee in that chair.

Fable, I will. Sit down. Oh, that this soul, that costs so great a price, as the dear precious blood of her redeemer, inspired with knowledge, should by that alone, which makes a man so mean unto the powers, even lead him down into the depth of hell, when men in their own pride strive to know more than man should know.

For this alone, God cast the angels down. The infinity of arts is like a sea, into which, when man will take in hand to sail further than reason, which should be his pilot, has skill to guide him. Losing once his compass, he falleth to such deep and dangerous whirlpools as he doth lose the very sight of heaven. The more he strives to come to quiet harbor, the further still he finds himself from land. Man, striving still to find the depth of evil, seeking to be a god, becomes a devil. Come fable, hast thou done.

Yes, yes, come hither. Fable, I cannot. Cannot? What ails your hollowness? Good fable, help me. Alas, where lies your grief? Some walk with it, eh? The devil's very sick.

I fear he'll die, for he looks very ill. There's stout ir right the minister of darkness. In Lucifer's dread name Corrup, conjures thee to set him free. I will not for the minds of all the earth, unless thou give me liberty to see seven years more

before thou seize on me. Fable, I give it thee. Swear, damned fiend. Unbind me, and by hell I will not touch thee till seven years from this hour be full expired. Enough. Come out. A vengeance take thy art.

Live and convert all piety to evil. Never did man thus overreach the devil. No time on earth like phytonic flames can have perpetual being. I return to my infernal mansion. But be sure. Thy seven years done, no trick shall make me tarry, but corrup. Thou to hell shall thable carry. Exit.

Then thus betwixt us too, this variance ends. Thou to thy fellow fiends, I, to my friends. Exit. Act one. Seam One, the Georgian, Waltham. Enter Sir Arthur Clare, Dorcas, his lady, Millicent his daughter, young Harry Clare. The men booted, the gentlewomen in cloaks and sain. safeguards. Blake, the merry host of the George, comes in with them.

Welcome good night to the George at Waltham, my freeholds, my tenements, goods and chattels. Madam, here's a room in the very Homer and Iliad of a lodging. It hath none of the four elements in it. I built it out of the centre, and I drink near the less sack. Welcome, my little waste of maidenheads. What? I serve the good Duke of Norfolk. God and mercy, my good host, Blague. Thou hast a good seat here. It is correspondent or so.

There's not a Tardarian, nor a carrier, shall breathe upon your guildings. They have villainous-ranked feet, the rose, and they shall not sweat in my linen. Knights and lords, too, have been drunk in my house. I thank of the destinies. Pray the good sinful innkeeper, will that corruption, thine Osler, look well to my gelding. Hey, ha, pox of these rushes.

You, St. Denis, your gelding shall walk without doors and cool his feet for his master's sake. By the body of St. George, I have an excellent intellect to go steal some venison. Now, when wast thou in the forest? Away, you stay up. mess of white broth. Come hither, sister.

Let me help you. Mine host, is not Sir Richard Munchesney come yet, according to our appointment when we last dined here? The night's not yet apparent. Mary, here's a foreigner that summons a pal and zeeth. You'll be here top and top,

gallant presently. Diswell, good, mine host. Go down and see breakfast be provided. Night thy breath has the force of a woman. It takes me down. I am for the base element of the kitchen. I retire like a valiant soldier. Face point blank to the foreman,

or like a courtier that must not show the prince's posteriors. Vanish to know my canoeasados and my interrogatories, for I serve for good to do you. You have no work. Exit. How doth my lady? Are you not weary, madam? Come hither.

I must talk in private with you. My daughter Millicent must not over here. I, whispering, pray God it tend my good. Strange fear assails my heart. Usurps my blood. You know our meeting with the knight-mountancy is to assure our daughter to his heir? Tis without question. Two tedious winters of pastur, since first these couple loved each other, and impassion glued first their naked hands with youthful moisture.

Just so long, on my knowledge. And what of this? This morning, should my daughter lose her name into Munchensie's house convey our arms, courted within his scutcheon, the affiance may twist him and her this morning should be sealed. I know it should. But there are crossers' wife. There's one in Welham, another at the Abbey, and the third at Cheston, and tis ominous to pass any of these without the paternoster.

Crosses of love still thwart this marriage, whilst that we too, like spirits, walk in night about these stony and hard-hearted plots. Oh, God, what means my father? for look you wife the riotous old knight hath o'er run his annual revenue in keeping jolly christmas all the year the nostrils of his chimney are still stuffed with smoke more chargeable than cane tobacco his hawks devour his fattest dogs while simple his leanest curs eat him hounds carrion besides i heard of late his younger brother a turkey merchant hath sure sucked the knight by means of some great losses on the see that, you conceive me, before God all is naught. His seat is weak, thus each thing rightly scannered, you'll see a flight wife shortly of his land. Treason to my heart's truest sovereign. How soon is love smothered and foggy gain? But how shall we prevent this

dangerous match? I have a plot, a trick, and this is it. Under this color, I will break off the match. I'll tell the night that now my mind has changed for marrying of my daughter, for I intend to send her into Cheston nunry. Oh, me, you cursed. There to become a most religious nun. I'll first be buried quick. To spend her beauty in most private prayers.

I'll sooner be a sinner in forsaking mother and father. How does like my plot? exceeding well But is it your intent She shall continue there Continue there That were a jest You know a virgin may continue

There a twelve month and a day only on trial There shall my daughter surgeon some three months And in a meantime I'll compass a fair match Twixt youthful Journingham The lusty heir of Sir Ralph Journingham Dwelling in the forest I think they'll both come hither with Munchesney

Your care argues the love you bear our child. I will subscribe to anything you'll have me. Exciant. You will subscribe it. Good, good, tis well. Love hath two chairs of state, heaven and hell. My dear Monsensi, thou my death shalt rue. Ere to my heart, millicent prove untrue.

Exit. Scene two, the same. Enter Blake. Oslers, you knaves and commanders, take the horses of the knights and competitors. Your honourable hulks have put into Arborah. They'll take in fresh water here, and I have provided clean chamberpots. Here they come. Enter Sir Richard Manchinsey, Sir Ralph Jurningham, young Frank Jurningham,

Raymond Manchinsey, Peter Fable and Bilbo. The destinies be most neat chamberlain to these swaggering Puritans, knights of the subsidy. God a mercy. Good mine host. Thanks, good host, Blake. Room for my case of pistols that have Greek and muttered bullets in them. Let me cling to your flanks my nimble debaulters and blow wind in your calves to make them.

well bigger. I'll caper in my own v. Simple. Away with Puntilio's end orthography. Eyes of the good Duke of Norfolk. Bilbo, to see a two, patuli recuban sub tegmini Fagggy. Truly, mine host, Bilbo, though he be somewhat out of fashion, will be your only blade still. I have a villainous sharp stomach to slice a breakfast. Thou shalt have it without any more discontinuance, releases or attunement. What? We know our terms of hunting and the sea-card. And do you serve the good Duke of Norfolk still? Still and still and still, my soldier of St. Quintons, come follow me.

I have Charles Wayne below in a butt of sack. It will glister like your crabfish. You have fine scholar-like terms. Your Kruper's dictionary is your only book to study in a cellar. A man shall find very strange words in it. Come, my host, let's serve the good Duke of Norfolk. And still and still and still, my boy, I'll serve the good Duke of Norfolk.

Exeunt, host and Bilbo. enter sir arthur clare harryclare and millicent good sir arthur clare what gentleman is that i know i am not tis master fable sir a cambridge shawlow my son's dear friend sir i entreat you know me command me sir i am affected to you for your monchazni's sake alas for him i not respect whether he sink or swim A word in private, Sir Ralph Jurningham. Me thinks your father looketh strangely on me. Say, love, why are you sad? I am not sweet. Passion is strong when woe with woe doth meet.

Shall zint to breakfast? After we'll conclude the cause of this upcoming. In and feed, and let that usher a more serious deed. Wilts do you desire his grief? My heart shall bleed. Penzi. Come, be frolic, friend. This is the day thou hast expected long. Pray God, dear Jurningham, it proved so happy. There's not can alter it. Be merry, lad.

There's not shall alter it. Be lively, Raymond. Stand any opposition against thy hope. Art shall confront it with her largest scope. Exeunt. Scene three, the same. Peter Fable, Solace. Good old Munchesney is thy hap so ill That for thy bounty in thy royal parts, Thy kind allegiance should be held in scorn, And after all these promises by Clare, Refused to give his daughter to thy son,

Only because thy revenues cannot reach To make her dowage of so rich a jointer, As can the heir of wealthy Jenningham? And therefore is the false fox now in hand, and to strike a match betwixt her and the other? And the old greybeards now are close together, plotting it in the garden. Isst even so? Raymond Munchesney, boy, have thou and I thus long at Cambridge read the liberal arts,

the metaphysics, magic, and those parts of the most secret deep philosophy? Have I so many melancholy nights watched on top of Peter House's highest tower? and come we back into our native home, for want of skill to lose the wench thou lovest? We'll first hang Enville in such rings of mist as never rose from any dampish fen. I'll make the brind sea to rise at where, and drown the marshes under Stratford Bridge.

I'll drive the deer from Waltham in their walks, and scatter them like sheep in every field. We may perhaps be crossed, but if we be, he shall cross the devil that but crosses me. Enter Raymond and young Joningham and young Clare. Oh, but here comes Raymond, disconsolate and sad. And here's the gallant that must have the wench. I pray thee, Raymond, leave these solemn dumps, revive thy spirits.

Thou that before hast been more watchful, than the day proclaiming cock, as sportive as a sportive as a kid as Frank and Mary as mirth herself. If aught in me may thy content procure, it is thine own. Thou maced thyself assure. Ha, Jurningham, if any but thyself had spoke that word, it would have come as cold as the bleak northern winds upon the face of winter. From thee they have some power upon my blood. Yet being from thee had but the hollow sound come from the lips of any living man. It might have won the credit of mine ear.

From thee, it cannot. If I understand thee, I am a villain. What, dost thou speak in parables to thy friends? Come, boy, and make me the same groaning love, troubled with stitches and the cough of the lungs, that wept his eyes out when he was a child, and ever since hath shot at Hudman Blind. Make him leap, caper, jerk, and laugh, and sing,

and play me horse tricks. Make Cupid wanton as his mother's dove, but in this sort boy I would have thee love. Why, how now, Madcap? What, my lusty Frank, so near a wife and will not tell a friend? But you will to this gear in hugger-mogger. Are thou turned miser, rascal, in thy loves? Who I? Sblood, what should all you see in me?

That I should look like a married man, huh? Am I bald? Are my legs too little for my hose? If I feel anything in my forehead, I am a villain. Do I wear a nightcap? Do I bend in the hams? What dost thou see in me that I should be towards marriage, huh? What, thou married? Let me look upon thee, rogue. Who has given out this of thee? How came'st thou into this ill name? What company hast thou been in, rascal? You are the man, sir. must have Millicent. The match is making in the garden now. Her jointure is agreed on, and the old men, your fathers, mean to launch their busy bags. But in meantime, to thrust Munchesney off, for a color of this new intended match, fair Millicent to Cheston must be sent, to take the approbation for a nun. Near look upon me, lad, the match is done.

Raymond Munchensi, now I touch thy grief with the true feeling of a zealous friend. But as for fair and beauteous Millicent, With my vain breath I would not seek to slubber her angel-like perfections. But thou knowest that Essex hath the saint that I adore. Where e'er did we meet thee in wanton springs? That like a wag thou hast not laughed at me, And with regardless jesting mocked my love. How many is sad and weary some,

night my sighs have drunk the dew from off the earth and I have taught the nightingale to wake and from the meadows spring the early lark an hour before she should have list to sing I have loaded the poor minutes with my moans that I have made the heavy slow-past hours to hang like heavy clogs upon the day but dear Manchensi had not my affection seized on the beauty of another dame before I would wrong the chase and over-give love of what one so worthy and so true a friend. I will abjure both beauty and her sight, and will in love become a counterfeit. Dear Jurningham, thou hast begot my life, and from the mouth of hell where now I sate, I feel my spirit rebound against the stars. Thou hast conquered me, dear friend, in my free soul. Their time nor death can by their power control. Frank Jurningham, thou art a gallant boy. and were he not my pupil, I would say he were as fine a metal gentleman, as of free spirit, and of his fine a temper, as is in England. And he is a man that very richly may deserve thy love. But, noble Clare, this while of our discourse, what may Munchesney's honour to thyself exact upon the measure of thy grace? Raymond Munchensi, I would have thee know, he does not breathe this air whose love I cherish and whose soul I love more than Munchensies,

nor ever in my life did see the man whom, for his wit and many virtuous parts, I think more worthy of my sister's love. But since the matter grows unto this pass, I must not seem to cross my father's will. But when thou list to visit her by night, my horses saddled and the stable door stands ready for thee, use them at thy pleasure. In honest marriage wed her frankly, boy, and if thou gets her lad, God give thee joy. Then care away. Let fate's my fall pretend, backed with the favors of so true a friend. Let us alone to bustle for the set. For age and craft with wit and art have met. I'll make my spirits to dance such nightly jigs along the way twixt this and totten cross,

the carrier's jades shall cast their heavy packs, and the strong hedges scarce shall keep them in. The milkmaid's cuts shall turn the wenches off, and lay the dossers tumbling in the dust. The Frank and Mary London prentices, that come for cream and lusty country cheer, shall lose their way, and, scrambling in the ditches,

all night shall whoop and hollow, cry and call, yet none to other find the way at all. pursue the project, Sharler, what we can do to help endeavour join our lives there too. Excient. End of Act 1 Act 2 of The Merry Devil of Edmonton by William Shakespeare. This is the Librevox recording.

All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. Act 2 Scene 1. Wolfham, the House of Banks. Enter Banks, Sir John, and Smug. Take me with you, good Sir John. A plague on the smug, and now touches liquor thou art foundered straight. What are your brains always watermills? Must they ever run round? Banks, your ale is a Philistine fox. Zah, there's fire in the taillant.

you are a road to charge us with mugs if the re-reward bhr the plague of this wind oh it tickles our catastrophe "' Neighbor banks of Walton and Goodman Smug, the Honest Smith of Edmonton. "'As I dwell betwixt you both at Enfield, I know the taste of both your ale-houses. "'They are good, both, smart both. "'Hem, grass, and hay. "'We are all mortal. "'Let's live till we die, and be merry, and there is an end.' "'Well said, Sir John, you are of the same humour still.

and doth the water run the same way still boy. Vulcan was a rogue to him. Sir John, lock, lock, lock, far, Sir John. So, Sir John, All one of these years, When it shall please the goddesses and the destinies, Be drunk in your company.

That's all now, and God send us health. Shall I swear I love you? No oaths, no oaths, good neighbor smug, We'll wet our lips together and hug, Corrals in private, and elevate the heart, And the liver and the lights, And the lights mark you me within us, For hem, grass and hay,

We are all mortal, that's live till we die, and be merry, and there's an end. But to our former motion, about stealing some venison, whither go we? Into the forest, nearer Banks, into Brian's walk, the mad keeper. Spud! I'll tickle your keeper. If faith, thou art always drunk when we have need of thee. Need of me? Sir, you shall have need of me always, while there's iron in anvil.

Master Parson, may the Smith go, thank you, being in this taking. Go? I'll go, in spite of all the bells in Waltham. The question is, good neighbour banks, let me see. The moon shines tonight. There's not a narrow bridge betwixt this and the forest. His brain will be settled Ere night He may go, he may go, Near Banks Now we want none

But the company of mine host Blog at the George at Waltham If he were here Our consort were full Look where comes my good host The Duke of Norfolk's man And how and how A hem, grass and hay

We are not yet mortal Let's live till we die And be merry And there's an end Enter host Ha! My Castilian dialogues And are thou in breath still, boy

Miller, doff the match hold Smith I see by thy eyes Thou hast been reading little Geneva print But when do we merely To the forest to steal some of the kings' dear I'll meet you at the time avoid it away i have knights and colonels at my house and must tend to the hungarians if we be scoured in the forest we'll meet in the church port at innfield its correspondent "'Tis well. But how, if any of us, should be taken?'

"'He shall have ransom by the Lord.' "'Tush! The nave-keepers are my Bessonians and my pensioners. "'Nine o'clock. Be valiant my little Gogamogs. I'll fence with all the justices in Hertfordshire. "'I'll have a buck till I die. I'll stay a-dough while I live. Hold your bow straight and steady. I serve the good Duke of Norfolk. Oh, row, boy! Peace, neighbor smug. You see, this is a boar.

A boar of the country, an illiterate boar, and yet the citizen of good fellows. Come, let's provide. Ahem, grass and hay. We are not yet all mortal. We'll live till we die and be merry, and there's an end. Come, smug.

Good night, Waltham. Oh, oh, boy. Excient. Scene two, the George Inn. Enter the knights and gentlemen from breakfast again. Nor I for thee, Claire, not of this. What hast thou fed me all this while with shawls, and comest to tell me now,

thy likest did not. I do not hold thy offer competent, nor do I like the assurance of thy land. The title is so brangled with thy debts. Too good for thee, and knight thou knowest it well. I fond not on thee for thy goods, not I, twas thine own motion, that thy wife doth know. Husband, it was so.

He lies not in that. Hold thy check, Queen. To which I hearkened willingly, and the rather, because I was persuaded it proceeded from love, thou borest to me and to my boy, and gavest him free access unto thy house. Here he hath not behaved him to thy child, but as befits a gentleman to do, nor is my poor distress state so low that I'll shut up my doors, I warrant thee. Let it suffice, madrously. I mislike it. nor think my son a match fit for my child i tell thee clare his blood is good and clear as the best drop the panteth in thy veins but for this made thy fair and virtuous child she is no more disparaged by thy baseness than the most orient and the prettiest jewel which still retains his lustre and his beauty although a slave were owner of the same she is the last left to me to bestow and her i mean to dedicate to god you do sir sir sir i do she is mine own rancency aside and pity she is so damnation dog thee and thy wretched pelt

Not thou, Mount Chesney, shall bestow my child? Neither shouldst thou bestow her where thou mean'st. What wilt thou do? No matter, let that be. I will do that, perhaps, shall anger thee. Thou hast wronged my love, and by God's blessed angel, thou shalt well know it. That brave not me.

Brave thee, bayscher, word not for manhood's sake, I say no more, but that there be some by whose blood is hotter than ours is, which being stirred might make us both repent this foolish meeting. But, Harry, Clare, although thy father have abused my friendship, yet I love thee, I do, my noble boy, I do, efeith. I do, do. Fill the world with talk of us, man. man, I never looked for better at your hands. I hoped your great experience and your years would have proved patience rather to your soul, than with this fantastique and untamed passion to wet their skeins.

And but for that, I hope their friendships are too well confirmed, and their minds tempered with more kindly heat than for their froward parents' sores that they should break forth, into public brawls. Howe'er the rough hand of the untoward world hath moulded your proceedings in this matter, yet I am sure the first intent was love. Then, since the first spring was so sweet and warm,

let it die gently. Nair kill it with a scorn. O thou base world, how levers is that soul that is once limbed in that polluted mud. O sir, Arthur, you have startled his free action. spirit with a too sharp spur for his mind to bear. Have patience, sir, the remedy to woe is to leave what a force we must forego. And I must take a twelve months approbation, that in meantime, this soul and private life at the year's end may fashion me a wife. But sweet, Mancensi, ere this year be done,

thou'dst be a friar, if that I be a nun. And father, ere young journingham'st I'll be, I will turn mad to spite both him and thee. Wife, come to horse, and housewife, make you ready. For if I elive, I swear by this good light, I'll see you lodged in Chesson House tonight. Exiled. Raymond, away, thou seest how matters for, churl, hell consume thee, and thy pelf and all. Now, Master Clare, you see how matters Vedge. your millicent must need to be made a nun.

Well, sir, we are the men must ply this match. Hold you your peace, and be a looker on, and send her unto Chesson. Where he will, I'll send me fellows of a handful high into the cloisters where the nuns frequent, shall make them skip like doze about the dale, and with the lady priors of the house to play at leaf-frog, naked in their smocks until the married wenches at their mass cry teahee whee-he and tickling these mad lasses in their flanks they'll sprawl and squeak and pinch their fellow nuns

be lively boys before the wench we lose I'll make the abbess wear the cannons hoos Xient Scene three the same Enter Harry Claire Frank Jenningham Peter Fable and Millicent. Spite now hath done her worst. Sister, be patient.

Foreworned poor Raymond's company. Oh, heaven! When the composure of weak frailty meet upon this mart of dirt, oh, then weak love must in her own unhappiness be silent And wink on all deformities. Tis well. Where's Raymond, brother?

Where's my dear Monchensie? Would we might weep together and then part, Our sign, Perel, would much ease my heart. Sweet beauty. Fold your sorrows in the thought of future reconciliationment. Let your tears show you a woman, but be no further spent than from the eyes, for sweet experience says that love is firm that's flattered with delays.

Alas, sir, think you I shall air be his. As sure as parting smiles on future bliss. Yon comes my friend, see, he hath doted so long upon your beauty, that your want will with a pale retirement waste his blood. For in true love, music does sweetly dwell. Severed, these less worlds bear within them hell. Enter manchency. Harry and Frank, you are enjoined to wane your friendship from me.

We must part. The breath of all advised corruption, pardon me, Faith, I must say so. You may think I love you. I breathe not. Refers spite do sever us. We'll meet my stealth, sweet friend. By stealth you twain.

Kisses are sweetest got with struggling pain. Our friendship dies not, Raymond. Pardon me. I am busied. I have lost my faculties and buried them in Millicent's clear eyes. Alas, sweet love, what shall become of me? I must acheson to the nunry. I shall ne'er see thee more.

How sweet, I'll be thy votary, will often meet. This kiss divides us and breathes soft adieu. This be a double charm to keep both true. Have done. Your fathers may chance by your parting. Refuse not you by any means, good sweetness, to go unto the nunnery. Far from hence must we begat your love-sweet happiness. you shall not stay there long,

your heart of bed shall be more soft when none and maid are dead. Enter Bilbo. Now, sir, uh, what's the matter? Mary, you must ha'orse presently. That villainous old gouty churl, Sir Arthur Clare, longs till he be at the nunry. How, sir?

Oh, I cry you mercy, He is your father, sir, indeed, But I am sure that there's last, affinity betwixt your two natures, then there is between a broker and a cat purse. Bring my gilding, sirrah. Well, nothing grieves me, but for the poor wench. She must now cry valet to lobster pies, hearty chokes, and all meats of mortality. Poor gentlewoman, the sign must not be in Virgo any longer with her, and that me grieves full well.

Poor Millicent must pry and repent. Oh, fatal wonder, she'll now be no fetter. Love must not come at her, yet she shall be kept under. Exit. Farewell, dear Raymond. Friend, adieu. Dear, sweet, no joy enjoys my heart till we next meet. Excient.

Well, Raymond, now the tide of discontentententent beats in thy face. But, ere to be long, the wind shall turn the flood. We must to Waltham Abbey, and as fair Millicent and Cheston lives, a most unwilling none, so thou shalt there become a beardless novice. To what end? Let time and future accidents declare. Taste thou my slights, thy love I'll only share. Turn, friar? Come, my good counsellor, let's go, yet that disguise will hardly shroud my woe. Exient. End of Act 2. Act 3 of The Merry Devil of Edmonton by William Shakespeare.

This is the Librevox recording. All Librevox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librevox.org. Act 3. Scene 1, Cheston Priory Enter the Prioress of Cheston with a nun or two, Sir Arthur Claire, Sir Ralph Jenningham, Henry and Frank, The Lady, and Bilbo with Millicent.

Madam, the love unto this holy sisterhood and our confirmed opinion of your zeal hath truly want us to bestow our child rather on this than any neighbouring cell. jesus daughter mary's child holy matron woman mild for thee a mess shall still be said every sister drop a bead and those again succeeding them for you shall sing a requiem The wench is gone, Harry. She is no more a woman of this world. Mark her well, she looks like a nun already.

What thinks on her? By my faith, her face comes handsomely to it. But peace. Let's hear the rest. Madam, for a twelve-month approbation we mean to make this trial of our child. Your care and our dear blessing in meantime, we pray may prosper this intended work. May your happy soul be blithe that's so true. truly pay your tithe. He who many children gave, tis fit, that he one child should have.

Then, fair virgin, hear my spell, for I must your duty tell. Good men and true, stand together and hear your charge. First, a morning's, take your book, the glass wherein yourself must look. Your young thoughts so proud and jolly must be turned to motions wholly. For your busk, attires and toys, have your thoughts on heavenly joys. And for all your follies past, you must do penance, pray and fast. Let her take heed of fasting, and if she ever hurt herself with praying, I'll ne'er trust beast. Tis goes hard, Berlidae.

You shall ring the sacring bell, keep your hours, and tell you now. rise at midnight at your matins, read your salt or sing your latins, and when your blood shall kindle pleasure, skirt yourself in planches measure. Worse than worse by St. Mary. Sarah Hal, how does she hold her countenance? Well, go thy ways, if ever thou proven none, I'll build an abbey. She may be a nun, but if ever she prove an anchoress,

I'll dig her grave with my nails. To her again, ma'am. Hold thine own wench. You must read your morning's mass. You must creep onto the cross. Put cold ashes on your head. Have a haircloth for your bed. She had rather have a man in her bed.

Bit your beads and tell your needs, your holy alves and your creeds. Holy maid, this must be done if you mean to live a nun. The holy maid will be no nun. Madam, we have some business of import and must be gone. Will't please you take my wife into your closet, who will further acquaint you with my mind? And so, good madam, for this time, adieu. Exeunt women.

Well, now, Frank Jerningham, how sayest thou? To be brief, what wilt thou say for all this, if we too, her father and myself can bring about that we convert this nun to be a wife, and thou the husband to this pretty nun. How then, my lad? Frank, it may be done. Aye, now it works. Oh, God, sir, you amaze me at your words.

Think with yourself, sir, what a thing it were to cause a recluse to remove her vow. A maimed, contrite, and repentant soul, ever mortified with fasting and with prayer, whose thoughts, even as her eyes are fixed on heaven. To draw a virgin thus devoured with zeal, back to the world. O impious deed, nor by the canon law can it be done without a dispensation from the church. Besides, she is so prone into this life, as she'll even shriek to hear a husband named. Aye, a poor, innocent she, well, here's no knavery. He flouts the old fools to their teeth. Boy, I am glad to hear thou mak'st such scruple of that conscience, and in a man so young as in yourself,

I promise you tis very seldom seen. But, Frank, this is a trick, a mere device, a slight plotted betwixt her father and myself, to thrust Mount Chensy's nose beside the cushion, that being thus be hard of all access, time may yet work him from her thoughts, and give the ample scope to thy desires. A plague on both for a couple of Jews. How now, Frank, what say you to that? Let me alone, I warrant thee. Sir assured that this motion doth proceed,

from your most kind and fatherly affection. I do dispose my liking to your pleasure. But for it is a matter of such moment as holy marriage, I must crave this much. To have some conference with my ghostly father, Friar Hildersham, hereby at Waltham Abbey, to be absolute of things that it is fit,

none only but my confessor should know. With all my heart, he is a reverend man, and tomorrow morning we will meet all at the Abbey, where by the opinion of that reverend man, we will proceed. I like it passing well. Till then we part, boy. I, think of it, farewell. A parent's care no mortal tongue can tell. Exeunt. Scene two, before the Priory Gate. Enter Sir Arthur Clare and Raymond Manchency, like a friar. Holy young novice, I have told you now my full intent and do refer the rest to your

professed secrecy in care. and see our serious speech hath stolen upon the way that we have come unto the abbey gate, because I know Munchest knee is a fox that craftily doth overlook my doings. I'll not be seen, not I? Tush, I have done. I had a daughter, but she is now a nun. Farewell, dear son, farewell. Fare you well, I, you have done. Your daughter, sir, shall not be long a nun. rare tutor. Never mortal brain plotted out such a mass of policy, and my dear bosom is so great with laughter, begot by his simplicity and ever. My soul has fallen in labor with her joy. Oh, my true

friends Frank Jurningham and Claire, did you now know but how this just takes fire? That good Sir Arthur, thinking me a novice, hath even poured himself into my bosom. Oh, you would venture. You would Vent your spleen's with tickling mirth. But raiment, peace, and have an eye about. For fear, perhaps, some of the nuns look out. Peace and charity within, never touched with deadly sin. I cast my holy water pure on this wall and on this dur, that from evil shall defend and keep you from the ugly fiend.

Evil spirit, by night nor day, shall approach or come this way. nor fairy by this grace, day nor night shall haunt this place. Holy maidens. Knock. Answer within. Who's that which knocks? Ha, who's there? Gentle nun.

Here is a friar. Enter none. A friar without. Now Christ us save. Holy man, what wouldst thou have? Holy maid, I hither come from friar and father Hildersome. by the favor and the grace of the prioress of this place, amongst you all to visit one that's come for approbation.

Before she was as now you are, the daughter of Sir Arthur Clare, but since she now became a nun called Millicent of Edmonton. Holy man, repose you there. This news on to our best bear. To tell her what a man is sent, and your message and intent. benedicissite benedicit exit exit do my good plump wench if all fall right i'll make your sisterhood one less by night now happy fortune speed me this merry drift i like a wench comes roundly to her shrift enter lady millicent have friars recourse then to the house of nuns madam it is in the order of this place when any virgin comes for approbation less that for fear were such sinister practice she should be forced to undergo this veil, which should proceed from conscience and devotion, a visitor is sent from Waltham House to take the true

confession of the maid. Is that the order? I commend it well. You to your shrift, I'll back unto the cell. Exit. Life of my soul, bright angel. What means the friar? O Millicent, tis I.

My heart misgives me. I should know that voice. You, who are you? The Holy Virgin bless me. Tell me your name you shall, ere you confess me. Munchancy, thy true friend. My Raymond, my dear heart, sweet life, give leave to my distracted soul, to wake a little from this swoon of joy.

By what means Thou to assume this shape? By means of Peter Fable, my kind tutor, who in the habit of of Friar Hildersham, Frank Jurningham's old friend and confessor,

helped me to act the part of priestly novice, plotted by Frank, by Fable, and myself, and so delivered to Sir Arthur Clare, who brought me here unto the Abbey Gate to be his nun-made daughter's visitor.

You are all sweet traitors to my poor old father. Oh dear life, I was it dreamt tonight that, as I was praying in my sultan, there came a spirit unto me as I kneeled, and by his strong persuasions tempted me to leave this nunry, and me thought he came in the most glorious angel shape that mortal eye did ever look upon. Ha, thou art sure that spirit, for there's no form is in mine eye so glorious as thine own. O thou idolatrous, that dost this worship to him whose likeness is but praise of thee, thou bright unsetting star, which through this veil for very envy, makeest the sun look pale. Well, visitor, lest that perhaps my mother should think the friar too strict in his decrees, I this confess to my sweet ghostly father, if chaste pure love be sin, I must confess. I have offended three years now with thee.

But do you yet repent you of the same? Faith, I cannot. Nor will I absolve thee of that sweet sin, though it be venial. You'd have the penance of thousand kisses, and I enjoin you to this pilgrimage, that in the evening you bestow yourself here in the walk near to the willow ground, where I'll be ready both with men and horse, to wait your coming and convey you hence unto a lodge I have,

in infield chase. No more reply, if that you yield consent. I see more eyes upon our stay are bent. Sweet life, farewell, tis done. Let that suffice. What my tongue fails, I send thee by mine eyes. Exit. Enter Fable, Claire, and Jurningham. Now, visitor, how does this new-made nun? Come, come, how does she, noble Capuchin? She may be poor in spirit, but for the flesh tis fat and plump boys. Ah, rogues, there is a company of girls would turn you all friars. But how, Munchesney?

How, lad, for the wench? Sound lads of faith, I thank my holy habit. I have confessed her, and the lady prioress hath given me ghostly counsel with her blessing. And how say ye, boys, if I be choose the weekly visitor? "'Sblood, she'll have naren nun unbag to sing mass, then. "'The abbot of Waltham will have as many children to put to nurse "'as he has calves in the marsh. "'Well, to be brief, the nun will soon at night turn tippet,

"'and if I can but devise to quit her cleanly of the nunnery, "'she is mine own. "'But, Sirrah Raymond, what news of Peter Fabel at the house?' "'Tush, he's the only man, "'a necromancer and a conjurer that will works for young manchancey altogether. And if it be not for friar Benedict, that he can cross him by his learned skill,

the wench is gone, Vable will fetch her out by very magic. Stands the wind there, boy? Keep them in that key. The wench is ours before tomorrow day. Well, Hall and Frank, as ye are gentlemen, stick to us close this once.

You know your fathers have men and horse lie ready still at Cheson, to watch the coast be clear, to scout about, and have an eye unto Munchesney's walks. Therefore, you too may hover thereabouts, and no man will expect you for the matter. Be ready but to take her at our hands. Leave us to scramble for her getting out. Splod, if all Herfordshire were at our heels, we'll carry her away in spite of them. But whither, Raymond? To Brian's upper lodge and infield 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. Be brief and secret. Soon at night, remember, you bring your horses to the willow ground. Tis done, no more. We will not fail the hour. My life and fortune now lies in your power. About our business.

Raymond, let's away. Think of your hour. It draws well of the day. Exit. End of Act 3. Act 4 of The Merry Devil of Edmonton by William Shakespeare. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain.

For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Act 4. Scene 1, Enfield Chase. Enter Blague, Smug and Sir John. Come ye Hungarian Pilches we are once more come under the zooner to rid of the forest. Let's be resolute. Let's fly to and again. And if the devil come,

we'll put him to his interrogatories and not budge of foot. What? What I'll put fire into you? He shall all three serve the good Duke of Norfolk. Mine host, my bully. my precious consul my noble holofernes i have been drunk in thy house twenty times and ten o's for that i was last night in the third heavens my brain was poor it had yes stint but now i am a man of action. It's not so, lad?

Why now thou hast two of the liberal sciences about thee, wit and reason. Thou may serve the Duke of Europe. I will serve the Duke of Christendom, and doing more credit in his cellar than all the plate in his buttery. It's not so, lad. 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.

Content, Sir John. Smug, dost thou remember the tree thou fell'st out last night? Tush! And had been as high as the Abbey, I should ne'ervert myself. I have fallen into the river, coming home from Waltham, and scape drowning. Come, savor, fear no spirits. We'll have a buck presently. We have watched later than this for a doe, mine host.

Thou speak'st as true as vervirt. Why then come, grass and hay, etc. Exeunt. Enter Claire, Jurningham, Milscent. Frank Jurningham. Speak softly, rogue. How now? Sfoot, we shall lose our way. It's so dark. Whereabouts are we? Why, man, at Potter's Gate. The way lies right. Hark. The clock strikes in infield. What's the hour?

Ten, the bell says. It lies in's throat. It was but eight when we sat out of Chesson. Sir John and his sexton are at ale tonight. The clock runs at random. Nay, as sure as thou livest, the villainous vicar is abroad in the chase this dark night. The stone priest steals more venison than half the country. Millicent, how dost thou? Sir, very well. I would, to God, we were at Brian's Lodge. We shall anon. Sounds hark! What means this noise?

Stay, I hear horsemen. I hear footmen, too. Nay, then I have it. We have been discovered. And we are followed by our father's men. brother and friend alas what shall we do sister speak softly or we are described they are hard upon us whatsoever they be shadow yourself behind this break of fern we'll get into the wood and let them pass enter sir john blake smug and banks one after another grass and hey we are all mortal the keepers abroad and there is an end sir john John. Neighbor banks. What's news? Zwoons, Sir John. The keepers are abroad. I was hard by them.

Grass and hay. Where's mine host blog? Here, Metropolitan, the Philistines of Apollos, be silent. Let us serve the good Duke of Norfolk. But where is smug? Here, a pox on you old dogs. I have killed the greatest buck in Brian's walk. Shift to yourselves. All the keepers are up. Let's meet in Enfield Church porch.

Away! We are all taking else. Excient. Enter Brian with his man and his hand. Rife, hear'st thou in his stirring. I heard one speak here hard by in the bottom. Peace, master, speak low. Zounds, if I did not hear a bow go off, and the buck bray,

I never heard a deer in my life. When went your fellows out into their walks? An hour ago. So life, is there steelers abroad and they cannot hear of them? Where the devil are my men tonight? Sirrah, go up the wind towards Buckley's lodge. I'll cast about the bottom with my hound, and I will meet thee under Coney Ock. I will, sir.

How now? By the mass, my hound stays upon something. Hark! Hark! Bowman! Hark! There! Brother, Frank Jaringham, Brother Clare! Peace! That's a woman's voice. Stand. Who's there? Stand or I'll shoot? Oh, Lord, hold your hands. I mean no harm, sir. Speak. Who are you? I am a mate, sir. Who? Master Brian?

The very same. Sure, I should know her voice. Mistress Millicent? Aye, it is I, sir. God, for his passion. What may be you? you here alone. I looked for you at my lodge an hour ago. What means your company to leave you thus? Who brought you hither? My brother, sir, and Master Jaringham, who, hearing folks about us in the chase, feared it had been Sir Ralph and my father, who had pursued us, thus dispersed ourselves till they were past us. But where be they? They be not far off here about.

about the grove. Enter Claire and Jurningham. Be not afraid, man. I heard Brian's tongue. That's certain. Call softly for your sister. Millicent. Aye, brother. Here. Mr. Clare! I told you it was Brian.

Who's that? Mr. Jenningham. You are a couple of hot shots. Does a man commit his wench to you to put her to grass at this? time of night? We heard a noise about her in the chase and fearing that our fathers had pursued us, severed ourselves. Brian, how hapt thou on her? Seeking, for stealers are abroad tonight. My hound stayed on her, and so found her out. They were these stealers that affrighted us. I was hard upon them when they horsed their deer, and I perceive they took me for a keeper. Which way took they?

towards infield A plague upon it That's that damned priest And blague of the George He that serves the good Duke of Norfolk A noise within Follow Follow

Peace, that's my father's voice Sounds you suspected them And now they are here indeed Alas What shall we do If you go to the lodge you are surely taken. Strike down the wood to Enfield presently. And if Mount Chensy come, I'll send him to ye. Let me alone to bustle with your father. I warn you that I will keep them

play till you have quit the chase. Away, away, away. Excient Albert Brian. Who's there? Enter the knights. In the king's name, pursue the ravisher. Stand, or I'll shoot. Who's there? I am the keeper that do charge you stand. You have stolen my dear. We stolen thy dear? We do pursue a thief.

You are errant thieves, and ye have stolen, my dear. We are knights, Sir Arthur Clare and Sir Ralph Jurningham. The more your shame that knights should be such. thieves. Who? What art thou? My name is Brian, cheaper of this walk. Oh, Brian, a villain. Thou hast received my daughter to thy lodge. You have stolen the best deer in my walk tonight. My dear! My daughter! Stop not my way! What made you in my walk? You have stolen the best buck in my walk. tonight. My daughter. My dear. Where is Mount Chensy? Where's my buck? I will complain me of thee to the king. I'll complain unto the king. You spoil his game. Tis strange that men of your account and calling

will offer it. I tell you true, Sir Arthur and Sir Rafe, that none but you have only spoiled my game. I charge you, stop us not. I charge you. Both ye get out of my ground. Is this a time for such as you? Men of your place and of your gravity, to be abroad a thieving? Tis a shame.

And afore God, if I had shot at you, I had served you well enough. Excient. Scene two, Enfield Churchyard. Enter Banks the Miller, wet on his legs. Sirfoot! Here's a dark night indeed. I think I have been in fifteen ditches between this and the forest. Soft, here's Enfield Church.

I am so wet for climbing over into an orchard for to steal some Philberts. Well, here I'll sit in the church porch and wait for the rest of my consort. Enter the sexton. Here's the sky as black as Lucifer God bless us It was Goodman Theophilus Buried He was the best nutcracker that ever dwelt in Enfield

Well, tis nine o'clock Tis time to run curfew Lord bless us What a white thing is that in the church porch Oh Lord My legs are too weak for my body My hair is too stiff for my nightkep My heart fails

This is the ghost of Theophilus Oh Lord it follows me I cannot say my prayers And want to give me a thousand pound Good spirit I have bowled and drunk And followed the hounds with you A thousand times, though I have not the spirit now to deal with you, O Lord! And to priest.

Grass and hay, we are all mortal. Who's there? We are grass and hay indeed. I know you to be Master Parsoned by your phrase. Sexton. Aye, sir. For mortality's sake, what's the matter? Oh Lord, I'm mad of another element.

Master Theophila's ghost is in the church porch. There was a hundred cats or fire dancing here even now. and they'll climb up to the top of the steeple, while not into the belfry for a world. Oh, good Solomon, I have been about a deed of darkness tonight. Oh, Lord, I saw fifteen spirits in the forest, like white bulls.

If I lie, I am an errant thief. Mortality haunts us. Grass and hay, the devil's at our heels, and lets hence to the parsonage. Excient. The miller comes out very softly What noise is that? Tis the watch, sure.

That villainous unlucky rogue smug is tain upon my life, And then all our villainy comes out, I heard one cry, sure. Enter host Blake. If I go steal any more venison, I am a paradox. Foss, could scarce bear the sin of my flesh in a day, it is so heavy. By it are not honest and served the good Duke of Norfolk, as true Mediterranean skinker should do, it may never look higher than the element of a constable. By the Lord, there are some watchmen. I hear them name Master Constable.

I would, to God, my mill were a eunuch, and wanted her stones, so I were hence. Who's there? Tis the Constable, by this light. I'll steal hence, and if I can meet mine host Blague, I'll tell him how smug is Tane and will him to look to himself. Exit. What the devil is that white thing? The same is at churchyard, and I have heard that ghosts and villainous goblins have been seen here. Enter Sexton and priest.

Grass and hay. Oh, that I could conjure. We saw a spirit-hift. in the churchyard, and in the fallow field there's the devil, with a man's body upon his back, in a white sheet. It may be a woman's body, Sir John. If she be a woman, the sheets damn her. Lord bless us, what a knight of mortality is this.

Priest! Mine host! Did you not see a spirit all in white cross you at the stile? Oh no, mine host, but there said one in the poor. I have not breathed enough left to bless me from the devil. Who's that? The sexton, almost freighted out of his wits. Did you see, banks, or smug?

No, they are gone to Walton, sure. I would fain hence. Come, let's to my house. I now serve the Duke of Norfolk in this fashion again whilst I breathe. If the devil be amongst us, his time to hoist sail and cry rumour. Keep together, sexton thou art secret what? Let's be comfortable one to another. We are all mortal, mine host. True, and I'll serve God in the night hereafter, afore the Duke of Norfolk. Exceant. End of Act four. Act five of the Merry Devil of

Bedmonton by William Shakespeare. This is a Libravox recording. All Libravox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Libravox.org. Act 5 Scene 1, an inn opposite the George Walsham. Enter Sir Arthur Clare and Sir Ralph Jurningham,

trussing their points as Newark. Good morrow, gentle night. A happy day after your short night's rest. sir raf stirring so soon indeed bur ladies sir rest would have done right well now riding late last night has made me drowsy go too go too those days are gone with us sir arthur sir arthur care go with those days let em even go together let em go tis time of faith that we were in our graves when children leave obedience to their parents when there's no fear of god no care air no duty. Well, well, nay, nay, it shall not do, it shall not. No, man, chensy, thou'st here on it. Thou shalt, thou shalt, if faith. I'll hang thy son if there be law in England. A man's child ravished from a nunnery. This is rare. Well, well, there's one gone for Friarildesum. Nay, gentle knight, do not vex thus. It will but hurt your health. You cannot grieve more than I do, But to what end? But how do you, said, Raph, I was about to say something.

It makes no matter. But Hark you, in your ear, the friar's a knave. But God forgive me, a man can tell neither. S' foot. So out of patience, I know not what to say. There's one went for the friar an hour ago. Comes he not yet. Svut, if I do fine knavery under cowl, I'll tickle him.

I'll furke him. here, here, he's here, he's here. Good morrow, friar, good morrow, gentle friar. Enter Hildersham. Good morrow, Father Hildesham, good morrow. Good morrow, Reverend Knights, unto you both. Father, now, now, you hear how matters go, I am undone, my child is cast away. You did your best, at least I think the best, but we are all crossed, flatly all

dashed. Alas, good nights, how might the matter be? Let me understand your grief for charity. Who does not understand my griefs? Alas, alas, and yet you do not. Will the church permit to none an approbation of her habit to be ravished? A holy woman, benedicity. Now God forfend that any should presume to touch the sister of a holy house. This is to deliver me. Why, Millicent, the daughter of this night is out of Chesson taken last night. Was that fair maiden late become a nun? Was she, Quota?

Navery, navery, navery, navery, I smell it, I smell it in faith. Is the wind in that door? Is it even so? Dost thou ask me that now? It is the first time that I ear heard of it. That's very strange. Why, tell me, friar. Tell me.

Thou art counted a holy man. Do not play the hypocrite with me, nor bear with me. I cannot dissemble. Did I ut but by their own consent? By thy allowance? Nay, further, by thy warrant. Why, Reverend Knight? Unreverend, friar!

Nay, then give me leave, sir, to depart in quiet. I had hoped you had sent for me to some other end. Nay, stay, good friar. if anything hathed about this matter in thy love to us that thy strict order cannot justify admit it be so and we will cover it take no care man disclaim me yet thy counsel and advise the wisest man that is may be o'er reached sir arthur by my order and my faith i know not what you mean by your order and your faith this is most strange of all why tell me friar are you not confessor to my son Frank? Yes, that I am. And did not this good night here, and myself, confess with you, being his ghostly father, to deal with him about the unbanded marriage betwixt him

and that fair young Millicent? I never heard of any match intended. Did we not break our minds that very time? That our device of making her a nun was but a color and a very plot put by young Manchester'sney. is't not true the more i strive to know what you should mean the less i understand you did not you tell us still how peter fable at length would cross us if we took not heed i have heard of one that is a great magician but he's about the university did not you send your novice benedict to persuade their girl to leave mont chensie's love to cross that peter fable in his art and to that purpose made him visit her I never sent my novice from the house, nor have we made our visitation yet. Never sent him?

Nay, did he not go? Did I not direct him to the house and confer with them by the way? Did he not tell me what charge he had received from you, word by word as I requested at your hands? That you shall know. He came along with me, and stays without. Come hither, Benedict. Enter Benedict. Young Benedict, were you air sent by me?

me to Chesson Nunnery for a visitor? Never, sir. Truly. Stranger than all the rest. Did I not direct you to the house? Confir with you from Waltham Abbey onto Chesson Wall? I never saw you, sir. Before this hour? The devil thou didst! Ho! Chamberlain! Enter Chamberlain.

Anon, anon. Call mine host Black hither. I will send one over to see if he'll. be up, I think he be scarce stirring yet. Wait, knave, didst thou not tell me an hour ago mine host was up? Aye, sir, my master's up. You, Dave, is he up, or is he not up? Does thou mock me?

Aye, sir, my master is up, but I think Master Blague indeed be not stirring. Why, who's thy master? Is not the master of the house, thy master? Yes, sir, but Master Blake dwells over the way. Is not this the George? Before God, there's some villainy in this. Sfoot, our signs removed. This is strange.

Exeunt. Seen to the George Inn. Enter Blake, trussing his points. Chamberlain, speak up to the new lottings, bid near look well to the baked meats. Enter Sir Altha and Sir Rolf How now, my old Janet Bock my house, my castle,

Lie in Waterham all night And not under the canopy of your host, Blag's house? Mine host, mine host, We lay all night at the George and Waltham, But whether the George be your fee simple or no, does a doubtful question, Look upon your sign. Botte, I've said, George,

This is mine overthought neighbour have done this to seduce my blind customers. I'll tickle his catastrophe for this. If I do not indict him at nextercise for burglary, let me die of the yellows. But I see it is no booted these days to serve the good Duke of Norfolk. The villainous world is turned manger. The one jade deceives another, and your Osler plays this part comedy for the fourth share. Heavy comedy was in hand you. horse and villainous male London ledger. Mine host, we have had the Moylinks night of it that ever we had in our lives.

Is certain? We have been in the forest all night almost. Scott, how did I miss you? I was stealing a buck there. A plague on you. We were stayed for you. Were you, my noble Romans? You shall share. The venison is a footing. "'Sed a general and Baca frigid Venus,

"'that is, there's a good breakfast provided for a marriage "'that's in my house this morning.' "'A marriage, mine host?' "'A conjunction, compunitive. "'A gallant match between your doctor "'and Monsieur Raven de Montchensy, young Juventus.' "'How?' "'Tis firm tis darned.

down, we'll show you a president of the civil law of fault. Oh, married? Leave tricks and admiration. There's a cleanly pair of sheets in the bed and orchard chamber and they shall lie

there. What? I'll do it. I'll serve the good Duke of Norfolk. Thou shalt repent this, Blague. If any law in England will make thee smart for this, expect it with all severity. I renounce your defiance.

If your pal so roughly, I'll better cut out of my gates against you. Stand fair, buddy. Priest, come off from the reward. What can you say now? It was done in my house. I've shouted it's called for it. Do you see yon bay window?

I serve the good Duke of Norfolk. It is lodging. Storm I cannot. serving the good Duke of Norfolk, thou art an actor in this, and thou shalt carry fire, thy things eternally. Enter Smug, Manchinsey,

Harry Clare, and Millicent. Fire, sub-blood! There's no fire in England like your Trinidados sack. Is any man here humorous? We stole the venison, and we'll justify it. Say you now?

In good sooth, smug, there's more sack or the fire smug. I do not take any exceptions against your sack, but if you'll lend me a pick-staff, I'll cuddle them all hence by this hand. I say thou shalt into the cellar. So furt, my host, shall's not grapple? Pray, pray you. I could fight now for all the world like a cockatrice's egg.

Shall not serve the Duke of Norfolk? Exit. In, skipper, in! Sirra, hath young Mount Chasney married your sister? To certain. Sir, here's the priest that coupled them, the parties joined, and the honest witness that cried amen. Sir Arthur Clare, my new created father, I'm to say, seat you hear me.

Sir, sir, you are a foolish boy. You have done that you cannot answer. I dare be bound to seize her from you, for she is a professed nun. With pardon, sir, that name is quite undone. This true love not cancels both maid and none. When first you told me I should act that part, how cold and bloody it creptor my heart. To Chesson with a smiling brow I. went, but yet, dear sir, it was to this intent that my sweet Raymond might find better means

to steal me thence. In brief, disguised he came, like novice to old father Hildersham. His tutor here did act that cunning part, and in our love hath joined much wit to art. Is Stephen so? With pardon, therefore, we entreat your smiles. love thwarted turns itself to thousand wiles. Young Master Jurningham, were you an actor in your own love's abuse? My thoughts could sir do labour seriously under this end. To wrong myself ere I'd abuse my friend.

He speaks like a bachelor of music all in numbers. Knights, but I had known you would have let this caveat of partridges sit thus long upon their knees upon my signpost. I would have spread my door with old cover lids. Well, sir, for this your sign was removed, was it? Faith we followed the directions of the devil must have beat a fable and smug. Lord bless us, could never stand upright since. You, sir, twas you was his minister that married them? Sir, to prove myself an honest man,

being that I was last night in the forest stealing venison. Now, sir, to have you stand my friend, if that matter should be called in question, I married your daughter to this worthy gentleman. I may chance to requite you and make your neck crack for it. If you do, I am as resolute as my neighbor, vicar of Walter Mabby. Ahem, grass and hay, We are all mortal Let's live till we be hang, mine host,

And be merry, and there's an end. Enter fable. Now, knights, I enter. Now my part begins. To end this difference, No, at first I knew what you intended, ere your love took flight from old Munchesley. You, Sir Arthur Clare, were minded to have married this sweet beauty to young Frank

Jurningham. To cross that match, I use some petty slights. But I protest, such as but sate upon the skirts of art, no conjurations, nor such weighty spells as tie the soul to their performance. These, for his love, who once was my dear pupil, have I affected. Now, me things, tis strange that you, being old in wisdom, should thus knit your forehead on this match, since reason fails. No law can curb the lover's rash attempt. Years in resisting this are sadly spent. Smile then, upon your daughter and kind son, and let our toil to future ages prove, the devil of Edmonton, did good in love. It is in vain to cross the Providence. Dear son, I take thee up into my heart. Rise, daughter.

This is a kind father's part. Why, Sir John, sent for spindle's noise presently. Let's be knight, I'll serve the good Duke of Norfolk. Grass and hay, mine host, Let's live till we die, and be merry, and there's an end. What? Is breakfast ready, mine host? Tis, my little Hebrew. Sira, ride straight to Chesson Nunry.

Fetch, thence, my lady. The house I know by this time misses their young votary. Come knights, let's in. I will to horse presently, sir. A plag of my lady, I shall miss a good breakfast. Smug, how chance he cut so plaguy be here. behind, Smug. Stand away. I'll founder you else.

Farewell, Smug. You art in another element. I will be by and by. I will be St. George again. Take heed, the fellow do not hurt himself. Did we not last night find two St. George's here? Yes, knights. This martialist,

was one of them. Then thus conclude your knight of merriment. Exeunt Omnays. Finnis End of Act 5. End of the Merry Devil of Edmonton. By William Shakespeare.