Abbot.
A woeful pageant have we here beheld.

Bishop.
The woe's to come; the children yet unborn
Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.

Aum.
You holy clergy-men, is there no plot
To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?

Abbot.
Before I freely speak my mind herein,
You shall not only take the sacrament,
To bury mine intents, but to effect
Whatever I shall happen to devise.
I see your brows are full of discontent,
Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears.
Come home with me to supper, and I'll lay.
A Plot shall shew us all a merry day. [Exeunt.

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