thy tree? She hath a real gripe for a rascally thin
leg. Your orphan, your cast-away, hath no chance
with her, I warrant. A rare bitch!

_Arth._ [_Aside_] O gentle sophist! what a line is here;
Lions tear wolves, wolves rend the stricken deer.

_3rd Poach._ Well, now, I thank thee, friend
Gregory. Thou art a true man. I will so belabour and
flay any of the cyder-blooded rascals, an thy bitch
shall hold him; 'twill do a man good to hear of it.

_1st Poach._ I know the bitch. She'll kill them
outright! These be right times. There be no inquests
now, Master Gregory?

_4th Poach._ What's that to me more than you
others? I did not murder him!

_1st Poach._ Who? The Puritan young gentleman
whom Noll the brewer, that is general now, made
such a stir about--

_3rd Poach._ As if plenty didn't die in these wars--

_1st Poach._ Or the girl, Gregory! eh? the girl by
the well, with her finger cut, and her throat--

_4th Poach._ Damn thee, have done! She was dead,
ere I found her, and I did but take--