[The maskers whisper again.
Only my self? O, why, with all my heart; 60
[Exeunt all but Piero and the maskers.
I’ll fill your consort. Here Piero sits;
Come on, unmask, let’s fall to.
[The conspirators bind Piero, pluck out his tongue, and triumph over him.
Ant. Murder and torture! no prayers, no entreats!
Pan. We’ll spoil your oratory. Out with his tongue.
Ant. I have ’t, Pandulpho; the veins panting bleed,
Trickling fresh gore about my fist. Bind fast—so, so!
Ghost of And. Bless’d be thy hand! I taste the joys of heaven,
Viewing my son triumph in his black blood.
Bal. Down to the dungeon with him! I’ll dungeon with him! I’ll fool you; Sir Jeffrey will be Sir Jeffrey; I’ll tickle you. 71