To keep it, with the greatest pertinacity.
Pour but a secret in him, and ’twould glue him
Like rosin, on a well-cork’d bottle’s snout;
Had twenty devils come with cork-screws to him,
They never could have screw’d the secret out.
Now, when Sir Thomas, in the dark, alone,
Had kill’d a Friar, weighing twenty stone,
Whose carcass must be hid, before the dawn,
Judging he might as hopelessly desire
To move a Convent as the Friar,