_Mil_.
He shall be hang'd first, we'll be sticklers there, boys.
_Die_.
The hundred thousand Dreams now, that possess him
Of jealousie, and of revenge, and frailtie,
Of drawing Bills against us, and Petitions.
_Lop_.
And casting what his credit shall recover.
_Mil_.
Let him cast till his Maw come up, we care not.
You shall be still secured. [_A great noise within_.
_Die_.
We'll pay him home then;
Hark what a noise he keeps within!
_Lop_.
Certain
H'as set his Chimneys o' fire, or the Devil roars there.
_Die_.
The Codixes o'th' Law are broke loose, Gentlemen.
_Ars_.
He's fighting sure.
_Die_.
I'le tell ye that immediately--
[_Exit_.
_Mil_.
Or doing some strange out-rage on himself.
_Ars_.
Hang him, he dares not be so valiant.
_Enter_
Diego.
_Die_.
There's no body at home, and he chafes like a Lyon,
And stinks withal.
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