As fortune swings about the restlesse state

Of vertue now throwne into all mens hate.

Enter Montsurry disguis'd, with the murtherers.

Away, my lord; you are perfectly disguis'd;

Leave us to lodge your ambush.

Montsurry. Speed me, vengeance! 55

Exit.

Mons. Resolve, my masters, you shall meet with one

Will try what proofes your privy coats are made on:

When he is entred, and you heare us stamp,