A Collection Of Old English Plays, Vol. IV. | Page 9

that I made, As you love me, or do regarde your life.
Allen. And as you love my safetie and your soule, Let grace and feare of God, such thoughts controule.
Fall. Still pratling! let your grace and feare alone, And leave me quickly to my private thoughts, Or with my sword ile open wide a gate, For wrath and bloudie death to enter in.
Allen. Better you gave me death and buriall, Then such foule deeds should overthrow us all.
Fall. Still are you wagging that rebellious tounge! Ile dig it out for Crowes to feede upon, If thou continue longer in my sight. [Exit Allenso. He loves him better then he loves his life! Heres repetition of my brothers care, Of sisters chardge, of grace, and feare of God. Feare dastards, cowards, faint hart runawayes! Ile feare no coulours[11] to obteine my will, 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; The world may see thou art the roote of ill, For but for thee poore Beech had lived still.
[Exeunt.

[ACT THE SECOND.]
[SCENE I.]
Enter Rachell and Merry.
Rach. Oh my deare brother, what a heap of woe, Your rashnesse hath powrd downe upon your head! Where shall we hide this trumpet of your shame, This timelesse ougly map of crueltie? Brother, if Williams do reveale the truth, Then brother, then, begins our sceane of ruthe.
Mer. I feare not Williams, but I feare the boy, Who knew I fetcht his maister to my house.
Rach. What, doth the boy know whereabouts you dwell?
Mer. I, that tormentes me worse than panges of hell:-- He must be slaine to, else hele utter all.
Rach. Harke, brother, harke, me thinkes I here on[12] call.
Mer. Go downe and see; pray God my man keep close; If he prove long-tongd then my daies are done. The boy must die, there is no helpe at all; For on his life my verie life dependes. Besides I cannot compasse what I would, Unlesse the boy be quicklie made away. This that abridgde his haplesse maisters daies, Shall leave such sound memorials one [_sic_] his head, That he shall quite forget who did him harme, Or train'd his master to this bloodie feast.-- Why, how now, _Rachell_? who did call below?
Enter Rachell.
Rach. A maide that came to have a pennie loafe.
Mer. I would a pennie loafe cost me a pound, Provided Beeches boy had eate his last.
Rach. Perchance the boy doth not remember you.
Mer. It may be so,--but ile remember him. [To people. And send him quicklie with a bloodie scrowle, To greete his maister in another world.
Rach. Ile go to Beeches on a faind excuse, To see if he will ask me for his maister.
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