_Enter two Murtherers with Pertillo_.

_Per_. I am so wearie in this combrous wood,
That I must needes go sit me downe and rest.

1 _Mur_. What were we best? to kill him unawares,
Or give him notice what we doe intend?

2 _Mur_. Whie then belike you meane to do your charge,
And feel no tast of pittie in your hart.

1 _Mur_. Of pittie, man! that never enters heere,
And if it should, Ide threat my craven heart
To stab it home for harbouring such a thought.
I see no reason whie I should relent;
It is a charitable vertuous deede,
To end this princkocke[19] from this sinfull world.

2 _Mur_. Such charitie will never have reward,
Unlesse it be with sting of conscience;
And thats a torment worse than Sisipus,
That rowles a restlesse stone against the hill.

1 _Mur_. My conscience is not prickt with such conceit.

2 _Mur_. That shews thee further off from hoped grace.

1 _Mur_. Grace me no graces, I respect no grace,
But with a grace, to give a gracelesse stab;
To chop folkes legges and armes off by the stumpes,