Rod. Dispatch him presently.
Ped. I wait your worst, Sir.
Jaq. Will the boy do it? is the rogue so confident?
So young, so deep in blood?
Lop. He shakes, and trembles.
Ped. Dost thou seek more coals still to sear thy conscience,
Work sacred innocence, to be a Devil?
Do't thy self for shame, thou best becom'st it.
Rod. Sirrah, I scorn my finger should be 'fil'd with thee;
And yet I'le have it done: this child shall strangle thee,
A crying Girle, if she were here, should master thee.
Alin. How should I save him? how my self from violence?
Ped. Leave your tongue-valour, and dispatch your hate, Sir;
The patience of my death, shall more torment thee,
(Thou painted honour, thou base man made backward)
Than all my life has fear'd thee.
Rod. Gag him, Sirrah.
Jaq. The Boy looks cheerfully now: sure he will do it.