_Mer_. No, get you up, you shall not stir abroade,
And when I call, come quicklie to the dore.

_Rach_. Brother, or that, or any thing beside,
To please your mind, or ease your miserie. [_Exit_.

_Mer_. I am knee-deepe, ile wade up to the wast,
To end my hart of feare, and to atteine
The hoped end of my intention.
But I maie see, if I have eyes to see,
And if my understanding be not blind,
How manie dangers do alreadie waight,
Upon my steppes of bold securitie.
_Williams_ is fled, perchaunce to utter all;
Thats but perchance, naie rather flatlie no.
But should he tell, I can but die a death;
Should he conceale, the boy would utter it;
The boy must die, there is no remedie.

[_The boy sitting at his maisters dore_.

_Win_. I wonder that my maister staies so long;
He had not wont to be abroade so late.
Yonder comes one; I thinke that same is he.

_Mer_. I see the boye sits at his maisters doore.
Or now, or never; _Merry_, stir thy selfe,
And rid thy hart from feare and jealousie.--
_Thomas Winchester_, go quicklie to your shoppe:
What, sit you still? your maister is at hand.