_Die_.
Let's keep close, Master;
This news comes from a cold Country.
_Lop_.
By my faith it freezes.
_Mil_.
Is not this true? do you shrink now good-man Curat?
Do I not touch ye?
_Lop_.
We have a hundred Duckets
Yet left, we do beseech ye, Sir--
_Mil_.
You'll hang both.
_Lop_.
One may suffice.
_Die_.
I will not hang alone, Master,
I had the least part, you shall hang the highest.
Plague o' this _Tiveria_, and the Letter,
The Devil sent it post, to pepper us,
From _Nova Hispania_, we shall hang at home now.
_Ars_.
I see ye are penitent, and I have compassion:
Ye are secure both; do but what we charge ye,
Ye shall have more gold too, and he shall give it,
Yet ne're indanger ye.
_Lop_.
Command us, Master,
Command us presently, and see how nimbly--
_Die_.
And if we do not handsomely endeavour--
_Ars_.
Go home, and till ye hear more, keep private,
Till we appear again, no words, Vicar,
There's something added.
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