Dor. My Son Cleander bathing
In his own gore. The Devil, to tell truth, i'th' shape of
An Host!
Ber. My Brother?
Malf. I have been
I'th' other world, in Hell I think, these Devils
With fire-brands in their paws sent to torment me,
Though I never did the deed, for my lewd purpose
To be a Whore-master.
Dor. Who's that?
Alci. 'Tis one in Armour. A bloudy sword in his hand.
Dor. Sans question the murtherer.
Malf. Who I? you do me wrong,
I never had the heart to kill a Chicken;
Nor do I know this sword.
Alc. I do, too well.
Ber. I have seen Lisander wear it.
Clar. This confirms
What yester-night I whisper'd: let it work,
The circumstance may make it good.