First Friend. So glib
Thy tongue slides to "comfort" already? Not mine!
Behoove us deal roundly: the wretch is distraught
—Too well I guess wherefore! Behooves a Divine
—Such as I, by grace, boast me—to threaten one caught
In the enemy's toils,—setting "comfort" at naught.
Second Friend. Nay, Brother, so hasty? I heard—nor long since—
Of a certain Black Art'sman who,—helplessly bound
By rash pact with Satan,—through paying—why mince