King.
Thou didst observe, in th' east isle of the abbey,
A wench that fainted as we pass'd along,
And drew a crowd of our observers from us.

Scroop.
I did, my liege: methought a fairer damsel
Mine eyes had ne'er beheld; when lo! o'th'sudden,
Her looks were chang'd, the roses left her cheeks,
And down she sunk, as if unpitying death
Had laid his clay-cold hand upon her heart.

King.
Wist you the cause?

Scroop.
I guess no other than the sweltry crowd,
Affecting oft such tender-fashion'd dames,
Oppress'd her gentle spirits: for I mark'd
An elegance and softness in her features,
That spoke the delicacy of her frame.

King.
O Scroop, it is indeed a gentle soul;
She was the earliest fa'vrite of my youth,
I her first love, and many an happy hour,
In all th'endearing intercourse of souls,
We've pass'd together.

Scroop.
My gracious liege,
Your highness young, the damsel in her bloom,
Where could love find itself more fit employment.

King.
Thou know'st, lord Scroop, our present resolution,
To cast off th'idle follies of our youth:
Hence our command to banish from the court
The lewd companions of those boyish days.
Now this fair wench is sister to Ned Poins,
Whom I have late provided for i'th'North:
And, for I would not see the girl again,
I gave her ghostly father late in charge
To place her in a sisterhood of nuns,
With an allowance of five hundred marks
A year for life. I thought her cloister'd up,
And wonder'd much to see her in the abbey.

Scroop.
She meant, no doubt, to move your highness's pity;
And not unlikely but that shew of grief,
And mock of swooning was a female trick,
An artifice that's common with these giglots.

King.
I judge not so; but, be that as it may,
I will not have my purposes delay'd,
Nor firm resolves capriciously disputed.
Go to her, therefore, thou, my friendly Scroop,
And say, her unexpected disobedience
Awakes our high displeasure.

Scroop.
I will, my liege; yet, by your highness' leave,
Thinks not your majesty she's yet too young,
Too fair, and too enamour'd of the world,
To turn recluse, and hide her in a cloister?
I warrant ye, my liege, a lusty lover
Would find a hearty welcome with her yet.

King.
My lord of Masham, there I hold you wrong her.
She is indeed most loving, kind, and gentle:
And yet I think not more than she is true:
Faithful of heart, sincere as open day,
A vestal's modesty sits on her brow,
And awes ev'n bold licentiousness to silence.
She feels, I fear, too anxiously th'effect
Of that necessity that caus'd our parting.

Scroop.
Where, in the name of wonder, did she learn
Those dainty manners? of her brother Ned?

Your majesty in truth is much deceiv'd;
Had not yourself so highly done her honour,
Some humbler lover had, perhaps, prevail'd,
And shar'd her favours on as easy terms.

King.
Thou knew'st her not.

Scroop.
My liege, I know the sex,
And judge not women by the things they were.
The kindest of them all were vestals once:
But soon as e'er they've learn'd their mother's game,
All that is left of chastity's grimace,
Mere affectation, prudery, and pride.

King.
You hold them, then, but lightly in esteem:
But general rules admit exceptions, Scroop.

Scroop.
O, yes, my liege, perhaps, in twice ten thousand
One may be found, whose mind's of chaster stuff
Than her frail body: but with all the rest
Body and soul go lovingly together.

King.
Go then, my lord, and in our gentle Nell
Of twice ten thousand think thou seest that one,
Whose mind is yet right chaste. Make known our will,
And in the gentlest terms your kindness may.

Scroop.
I will, my liege. [Exit King Henry.

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