And we will make a bloodie feastivall.

_Cove_. The plots are laide, the keyes of golden coine,
Hath op'd the secret closets of their harts.
Inter [_sic_], insult, make captive at thy will,
Themselves, and friends, with deedes of damned ill:
Yonder is _Truth_, she commeth to bewaile,
The times and parties that we worke upon.

_Hom_. Why, let her weepe, lament and morne for me,
We are right bred of damn'd iniquitie,
And will go make a two-folde Tragedie.
[_Exeunt_.

_Truth_. Goe you disturbers of a quiet soule,
Sad, greedy, gaping, hungrie _Canibals_,
That ioy to practise others miseries.
Gentles, prepare your teare-bedecked eyes,
To see two shewes of lamentation,
Besprinckled every where with guiltlesse blood,
Of harmlesse youth, and pretie innocents.
Our Stage doth weare habilliments of woe,
_Truth_ rues to tell the truth of these laments:
The one was done in famous London late,
Within that streete whose side the River Thames
Doth strive to wash from all impuritie:
But yet that silver stream can never wash,
The sad remembrance of that cursed deede,
Perform'd by cruell _Merry_ on iust _Beech_,
And his true boye poore _Thomas Winchester_.