_Wil_. That which my hart hath promis'd to conceale.

_Cow_. Why, now you fall into your auncient vaine.

_Wil_. Tis vaine to urge me from this silent vaine;
I will conceale it, though it breed my paine.

_Cow_. It seemes to be a thing of consequence,
And therefore prithie, _Harry_, for my love,
Open this close fast-clasped mysterie.

_Wil_. Were I assur'd my hart should have release
Of secret torment and distemperature,
I would reveale it to you specially
Whom I have found my faithfull favorite.

_Cow_. Good _Harrie Williams_, make no doubt of that;
Besides your griefe reveald may have reliefe,
Beyond your present expectation.
Then tell it, _Harry_, what soere it be,
And ease your hart of horror, me of doubt.

_Wil_. Then have you heard of _Beech_ of _Lambert Hill_,
And of his boy which late were murthered?

_Cow_. I heard, and sawe their mangled carcases.

_Will_. But have you heard of them that murthered them?