Cla. Where's thy hurt?
Soto. I know not,
But I am sure I am kill'd.
Cla. Canst thou sit up,
That I may find the hurt out?
Soto. I can sit up,
But ne'er the less I am slain.
Cla. 'Tis not o' this side?
Soto. No Sir, I think it be not.
Cla. Nor o' this side,
Was it done with a sword?
Soto. A Gun, a Gun, sweet Master.
Cla. The devil a bullet has been here: thou art well man.
Soto. No sure I am kill'd.