Punch. Why, you said dead—dead—dead.
Jack. Yes; and when you are dead—dead—dead—you will be quite dead.
Punch. Oh! I never knowed that before.
Jack. Now, prepare yourself for execution.
Punch. What for?
Jack. For killing your wife, throwing your poor dear little innocent baby out of the window, and striking the Beadle unmercifully over the head with a mop-stick. Come on.
[Exaunt Hangman behind Scene, and re-enter, leading Punch slowly forth to the foot of the gallows. Punch comes most willingly, having no sense.
Jack. Now, my boy, here is the corfin, here is the gibbet, and here is the pall.
Punch. There’s the corfee-shop, there’s giblets, and there’s St. Paul’s.
Jack. Get out, young foolish! Now then, place your head in here.