Mont. Is there no more of you? he wou'd next demand my skin.
1 Cred. No Sir, here's no more of us, nor do any of us demand your skin, we know not what to do with it: but it may be if you ow'd your Glover any money, he knew what use to make of it.
Mont. Ye dregs of baseness, vultures amongst men,
That tyre upon the hearts of generous spirits.
1 Cred. You do us wrong Sir, we tyre no generous spirits, we tyre nothing but our hackneys.
Enter Mallicorne.
Mont. But here comes one made of another piece;
A man well meriting that free born name
Of Citizen; welcome my deliverer, I am falen
Into the hands of blood-hounds, that for a sum
Lesser than their honesties, which is nothing,
Wou'd tear me out of my skin.
Mal. Why Sir, what's the matter?
1 Cre. Why Sir the matter is, that we must have our money, which if we cannot have, we'll satisfie our selves with his carcass, and be payd that wayes: you had as good Sir, not have been so peremptory. Officer, hold fast.
1 Offi. The strenuous fist of vengeance now is clutcht; therefore fear nothing.
Mal. What may be the debt in gross?