Ant. No, fet I am not.
1 Ser. Shall I knock out his brains? I have kill'd dogs have been worth three of him for all uses.
2 Ser. Sirrah, the truth on't is, you must with me to a Justice. O Roger, Roger.
1 Ser. Why, what's the matter William?
2 Ser. Heavy news Roger, heavy newes; god comfort us.
Ant. What's the matter now? I am e'en weary of this way, would I were out on't.
1 Ser. My Master sure is murder'd, Roger, and this cursed rogue
[I] fear, has had a hand in't.
Ant. No fet not.
1 Ser. Stand away, I'll kickt out of him: come, sirrha, mount, I'll make you dance, you Rascal, kill my Master? If thy breech were cannon proof, having this good cause on my side, I would encounter it; hold fair, Shamrocke.