Dog. He has the back of a sheep, but the belly of an otter; devours by sea and land. “Why am I in white?” didst thou not pray to me?
M. Saw. Yes, thou dissembling hell-hound!
Why now in white more than at other times?
Dog. Be blasted with the news! whiteness is day’s footboy, a forerunner to light, which shows thy old rivelled face: villanies are stripped naked; the witch must be beaten out of her cockpit.
M. Saw. Must she? she shall not: thou’rt a lying spirit:
Why to mine eyes art thou a flag of truce?
I am at peace with none; ’tis the black colour,
Or none, which I fight under: I do not like
Thy puritan paleness; glowing furnaces
Are far more hot than they which flame outright.
If thou my old dog art, go and bite such
As I shall set thee on.
Dog. I will not.
M. Saw. I’ll sell myself to twenty thousand fiends
To have thee torn in pieces, then.
Dog. Thou canst not; thou art so ripe to fall into hell, that no more of my kennel will so much as bark at him that hangs thee.
M. Saw. I shall run mad.
Dog. Do so, thy time is come to curse, and rave, and die; the glass of thy sins is full, and it must run out at gallows.