Count. Hence to a dungeon with those mutinous slaves;
There let them prate of prophecies and visions;
And when coarse fare and stripes bring back their senses,
Perhaps I may relent, and turn them loose
To new offences, and fresh chastisement.
[Exeunt Officers, &c.
Fab. You bleed, my lord!
Count. A scratch—death! to be bay'd
By mungrels! curs! They yelp'd, and show'd their fangs,
Growl'd too, as they would bite. But was't not poor,