Bal. Their riddance?
King. That.
Bal. What way? by poyson?
King. So.
Bal. Starving, or strangling, stabbing, smothering?
Queen. Good.
King. Any way, so 'tis done.
Bal. But I will have, Sir, This under your owne hand; that you desire it, You plot it, set me on too't.
King. Penne, Inke and paper.
Bal. And then as large a pardon as law and wit Can engrosse for me.