Itha. You loiter, master, wherefore stay we thus? O how I long to see him shake his heels.
Bar. Come on, sirrah. Off with your girdle, make a handsome noose; [Ithamore makes a noose in his girdle. They put it round the Friar's neck.
Friar, awake!
F. Barn. What, do you mean to strangle me?
Itha. Yes, 'cause you use to confess.
Bar. Blame not us but the proverb, confess and be hanged; pull hard.
F. Barn. What, will you have[114] my life?20
Bar. Pull hard, I say; you would have had my goods.
Itha. I, and our lives too, therefore pull amain. [They strangle him. 'Tis neatly done, sir, here's no print at all.
Bar. Then it is as it should be; take him up.