Dwar. Puissant Knight of the burning Pestle height,
See here another wretch, whom this foul beast
Hath scorcht and scor'd in this inhumane wise.
Rafe. Speak me thy name, and eke thy place of birth,
And what hath been thy usage in this Cave.
2. Knight. I am a Knight, Sir Pock-hole is my name,
And by my birth I am a Londoner,
Free by my Copy, but my Ancestors
Were Frenchmen all, and riding hard this way,
Upon a trotting horse my bones did ake,
And I faint Knight to ease my weary limbes,
Light at this Cave, when straight this furious fiend,
With sharpest instrument of purest steel,
Did cut the gristle of my Nose away,
And in the place this velvet plaster stands,
Relieve me gentle Knight out of his hands.
Wife. Good Rafe relieve Sir Pockhole, and send him away, for in truth his breath stinks.
Rafe. Convey him straight after the other Knight:
Sir Pockhole fare you well.
[2]. Knight. Kind Sir goodnight. [Exit.
[Cryes within.
Man. Deliver us.
Woman. Deliver us.
Wife. Harke George, what a woful cry there is, I think some woman lyes in there.