_Fall_. Chil let om blood, but yet it is no time,
Untill the zygne be gone below the hart.[41]

_Vesu_. Forbeare a while this idle businesse,
And talke of matters of more consequence.

_Fall_. Che tell you plaine, you are no honest man,
To call a shepheards care an idle toye.
What though we have a little merry sport
With flowrie gyrlonds, and an Oaten pipe,
And jolly friskins on a holly-day,
Yet is a shepheards cure a greater carke
Then sweating Plough-men with their busie warke.

_Vesu_. Hence! leave your sheepish ceremoniall!--
And now, _Fallerio_, in the Princes name,
I do arrest you, for the cruell murther
Of young _Pertillo_, left unto your charge,
Which you discharged with a bloody writ,
Sign'd by the hands of those you did suborne.
Nay, looke not strange, we have such evidence,
To ratifie your _Stigian_ cruelty,
That cannot be deluded any way.

_Allen_. Alas, my Lords, I know not what you say!
As for my Nephew, he, I hope, is well:
I sent him yesterday to _Padua_.

_Alber_. I, he is well, in such a vengers handes,