He Sings.
A curse upon thee for a slave,
Art thou here, and heardst me rave?
Fly not sparkles from mine eye,
To shew my indignation nigh?
Am I not all foam, and fire,
With voice as hoarse as a Town-crier?
How my back opes and shuts together,
With fury, as old mens with weather!
Could'st thou not hear my teeth gnash hither?
Lap. No truly, Sir, I thought 't had been a Squirrel,
Shaving a Hazel-nut.
Pas. Death, Hell, Fiends, and darkness.
I will thrash thy maungy carkass.
Lap. Oh sweet Sir.
Pas. There cannot be too many tortures,
Spent upon those louzie Quarters.
Lap. Hold, oh. [Falls down for dead.
Pas. Thy bones shall rue, thy bones shall rue.
Sings again.
Thou nasty, scurvy, mongril Toad,
Mischief on thee;
Light upon thee,
All the plagues
That can confound thee
Or did ever raign abroad:
Better a thousand lives it cost,
Than have brave anger spilt or lost. [Exit.