Jud. Would I were fairly hang'd; this is the devil,
The kill-cow, Caratach,
Car. And you would hang 'em.
Nen. Are they not enemies?
1 Sol. My breech makes buttons.
1 Daugh. Are they not our tormentors?
Car. Tormentors? Flea-traps.
Pluck off your halters, fellows.
Nen. Take heed, Caratach,
Taint not your wisdom.
Car. Wisdom, Nennius?
Why, who shall fight against us, make our honors,
And give a glorious day into our hands,
If we dispatch our foes thus? what's their offence?
Stealing a loaf or two to keep out hunger,
A piece of greazie bacon, or a pudding?
Do these deserve the gallows, they are hungry,
Poor hungry knaves, no meat at home left, starv'd:
Art thou not hungry?
Jud. Monstrous hungry.
Car. He looks like hungers self: get 'em some victuals,
And Wine to cheer their hearts, quick: Hang up poor pilchers?