But not so close but that my verie soule,
Is ract with tormentes for _Pertillos_ death.
I am _Acteon_; I doe beare about,
My hornes of shame and inhumanitie.
My thoughts, like hounds which late did flatter me
With hope of great succeeding benefits,
Now gin to teare my care-tormented heart
With feare of death and tortring punishment.
These are the stings whenas our consciences
Are stuf'd and clogd with close-concealed crimes.
Well, I must smoather all these discontentes,
And strive to beare a smoother countenaunce
Then rugged care would willingly permit.
Ile to the Court to see _Allenso_ free,
That he may then relieve my povertie.

[_Exit_.



[SCENE IX.]


_Enter Constable, three watchmen with halberdes_.

_Con_. Who would have thought of all the men alive
That _Thomas Merry_ would have done this deede
So full of ruth and monstrous wickednesse!

1 _wat_. Of all the men that live in _London_ walles,