But in dispight ile have it ere I sleepe,
Although I send him to eternall rest.
But, shallow foole, thou talkst of mighty things,
And canst not compasse what thou dost conceive.
Stay, let me see, ile fetch him to my house,
And in my garret quickly murther him:
The night conceales all in her pitchie cloake,
And none can open what I meane to hide.
But then his boy will say I fetcht him foorth:
I am resolv'd he shall be murthered to [_sic_];
This toole shall write, subscribe, and seale their death
And send them safely to another world.
But then my sister, and my man at home,
Will not conceale it when the deede is done.
Tush, one for love, the other for reward,
Will never tell the world my close intent.
My conscience saith it is a damned deede
To traine one foorth, and slay him privily.
Peace, conscience, peace, thou art too scripulous [_sic_];
Gaine doth attend[6] this resolution.
Hence, dastard feare! I must, I can, I will,
Kill my best friend to get a bag of gold.
They shall dye both, had they a thousand lives;
And therefore I will place this hammer here,
And take it as I follow _Beech_ up staires,
That suddenlie, before he is aware,
I may with blowes dash out his hatefull braines.--
Hoe, _Rachell_, bring my cloake; look to the house,
I will returne againe immediately.