Holloa! behold me, here am I!
I'll have thee now prepare,
And by this arm thou'lt surely die,
I'll have thee this night, beware.
So, see, what bloody works thou'st made,
Thou art a butcher, sir, by trade.
I'll kill, as thou did'st kill my brother,
For one good turn deserves another.
(They fight, St. George kills the Colonel.)
St. Patrick.
Stay thy hand, St. George, and slay no more; for I feel for the wives and families of those men thou hast slain.
St. George.
So am I sorry. I'll freely give any sum of money to a doctor to restore them again. I have heard talk of a mill to grind old men young, but I never heard of a doctor to bring dead men to life again.
St. Patrick.
There's an Irish doctor, a townsman of mine, who lived next door to St. Patrick, he can perform wonders. Shall I call him, St. George?
St. George.
With all my heart. Please to walk in, Mr. Martin Dennis. It's an ill wind that blows no good work for the doctor. If you will set these men on