All. Good colonel!
Gril. Good rats, my precious vermin.
You moving dirt, you rank stark muck o'the world,
You oven-bats, you things so far from souls,
Like dogs, you're out of Providence's reach,
And only fit for hanging; but be gone,
And think of plunder.—You right elder sheriff,
Who carved our Henry's image on a table,
At your club-feast, and after stabbed it through,—[11]
1 Sher. Mercy, good colonel.
Gril. Run with your nose to earth;
Run, blood-hound, run, and scent out royal murder.—
052 You second rogue, but equal to the first,
Plunder, go hang,—nay, take your tackling with you,
For these shall hold you fast,—your slaves shall hang you.
To the mid region in the sun:
Plunder! Begone, vipers, asps, and adders! [Exeunt Sheriffs and People.
Enter Malicorn.
Ha! but here comes a fiend, that soars above;
A prince o'the air, that sets the mud a moving.
Mal. Colonel, a word.
Gril. I hold no speech with villains.
Mal. But, sir, it may concern your fame and safety.
Gril. No matter; I had rather die traduced,
Than live by such a villain's help as thine.