Believe thou wert a natural Burden) let her womb
Be curs'd of women for a bed of vipers.
3 Sol. Me thinks the ground shakes to devour this rascal,
And the kind air turns into foggs and vapours,
Infectious mists, to crown his villanies.
Thou maist go wander, like a thing heaven hated.
1 Sold. And valiant minds hold poysonous to remember.
The Hangman will not keep thee company,
He has an honourable house to thine,
No, not a thief though thou couldst save his life for't