M. Saw. Go, touch his life.
Dog. I cannot.
M. Saw. Hast thou not vowed? Go, kill the slave!
Dog. I wonnot.
M. Saw. I’ll cancel, then, my gift.
Dog. Ha, ha!
M. Saw. Dost laugh!
Why wilt not kill him?
Dog. Fool, because I cannot.
Though we have power, know it is circumscribed
And tied in limits: though he be curst to thee,
Yet of himself he’s loving to the world,
And charitable to the poor: now men that,
As he, love goodness, though in smallest measure,
Live without compass of our reach. His cattle
And corn I’ll kill and mildew; but his life—
Until I take him, as I late found thee,
Cursing and swearing—I’ve no power to touch.
M. Saw. Work on his corn and cattle, then.