Though all the fiends in hell were opposite.
Ide rather loose mine eye, my hand, my foote,
Be blinde, wante senses, and be ever lame,
Then be tormented with such discontent
This resignation would afflict me with.
Be blithe, my boy, thy life shall sure be done,
Before the setting of the morrowe sunne.
[_Exit_.

_Enter Avarice and Homicide bloody_.

_Hom_. Make hast, runne headlong to destruction!
I like thy temper that canst change a heart
From yeelding flesh to Flinte and Adamant.
Thou hitst it home, where thou doost fasten holde;
Nothing can separate the love of golde.

_Ava_. Feare no relenting, I dare pawne my soule,
(And thats no gadge, it is the divels due)
He shall imbrew his greedie griping hands
In the dead bosome of the bloodie boy,
And winde himselfe, his sonne, and harmlesse wife,
In endlesse foldes of sure destruction.
Now, _Homicide_, thy lookes are like thyselfe,
For blood and death are thy companions.
Let my confounding plots but goe before,
And thou shalt wade up to the chin in gore.

_Homi_. I finde it true, for where thou art let in,
There is no scruple made of any sinne;