_Ars_.
You dare not use us thus?
_Bar_.
You shall be bob'd, Gentlemen,
Stir, and as I have a life, ye goe to prison,
To prison, without pitie instantly,
Before ye speak another word to prison.
I have a better Guard without, that waits;
Do you see this man, _Don_ Curate? 'tis a Paratour
That comes to tell ye a delightfull story
Of an old whore ye have, and then to teach ye
What is the penaltie; Laugh at me now Sir,
What Legacie would ye bequeath me now,
(And pay it on the nail?) to fly my fury?
_Lop_.
O gentle Sir.
_Bar_.
Do'st thou hope I will be gentle,
Thou foolish unconsiderate Curate?
_Lop_.
Let me goe Sir.
_Bar_.
I'le see thee hang first.
_Lop_.
And as I am a true Vicar,
Hark in your ear, hark softly--
_Bar_.
No, no bribery.
I'le have my swindge upon thee; Sirra? Rascal?
You Lenten Chaps, you that lay sick, and mockt me,
Mockt me abominably, abused me lewdly,
I'le make thee sick at heart, before I leave thee,
And groan, and dye indeed, and be worth nothing,
Not worth a blessing, nor a Bell to knell for thee,
A sheet to cover thee, but that thou Stealest,
Stealest from the Merchant, and the Ring he was buried with
Stealest from his Grave, do you smell me now?
_Die_.
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