STRUMBO.
I will not speak, for I am dead, I tell thee.

TROMPART.
And is my master dead?
O sticks and stones, brickbats and bones,
and is my master dead?
O you cockatrices and you bablatrices,
that in the woods dwell:
You briers and brambles, you cook's shops
and shambles,
come howl and yell.
With howling & screeking, with wailing and
weeping,
come you to lament,
O Colliers of Croyden, and rustics of Royden,
and fishers of Kent;
For Strumbo the cobbler, the fine merry cobbler
of Cathnes town:
At this same stour, at this very hour,
lies dead on the ground.
O master, thieves, thieves, thieves.

STRUMBO.
Where be they? cox me tunny, bobekin! let me
be rising. Be gone; we shall be robbed by and by.

[Exeunt.]