Man. Ile meete a thousand deaths first.
Hen. Plucke, & plucke home, for he's a murtherous Villaine.
Man. Thou worse, a divell.
Mac. Racke him!
Man. Oh stay! for heavens sake spread your mercy! I doe confesse the murther; I killd my father.
All. Take him off!
Man. This hand stabbd him.
Mac. Where?
Man. Neere St. Germains In Paris, in a darke night, & then I fled.
Mac. Thy owne tongue is thy Judge; take him away: To-morrow looke to dye: send him a Confessour.