Lop. He will mall him else.
Alin. Are ye prepar'd to die, Sir?
Ped. Yes boy, and ready; prethee to thy business.
Alin. Why are ye then so angry? so perplext, Sir?
Patience wins Heaven, and not the heat of passion.
Why do you rayle?
Lop. The boy's a pretty Priest.
Ped. I thank ye gentle child, you teach me truely.
Alin. You seem to fear too.
Ped. Thou seest more, than I feel, boy.
Ped. No sure boy, 'tis thy tenderness:
Prethee make haste, and let that gulph be satisfied.