Arch. The dog shall die, madam, for being the occasion of my disappointment.—Sirrah, this moment is your last.
Gib. Sir, I'll give you two hundred pounds to spare my life.
Arch. Have you no more, rascal?
Gib. Yes, sir, I can command four hundred; but I must reserve two of them to save my life at the sessions.
Enter Scrub and Foigard.
Arch. Here, doctor: I suppose Scrub and you, between you, may manage him:——Lay hold of him.
[Foigard lays hold of Gibbet.
Gib. What! turned over to the priest already——Lookye, doctor, you come before your time; I an't condemned yet, I thank ye.
Foig. Come, my dear joy, I vil secure your body and your shoul too; I will make you a good catholic, and give you an absolution.
Gib. Absolution! Can you procure me a pardon, doctor?