Tongue's telling. Yet penitence prompt may appease
God's wrath at thy bond with the Devil who stalks
—Strides hither to strangle thee!
Fust. Childhood so talks.—
Not rare wit nor ripe age—ye boast them, my neighbors!—
Should lay such a charge on your townsman, this Fust
Who, known for a life spent in pleasures and labors
If freakish yet venial, could scarce be induced
To traffic with fiends.
First Friend. So, my words have unloosed