Man. We have allready cast up our accounts And sent, we hope, our debts up into heaven.
Fer. Our sorrowes & our sighes fly after them.
Ped. Then your confession of the murther stands As you your selfe did sett it downe?
Man. It does;
But on my knees I beg this marginall note
May sticke upon the paper; that no guilt,
But feare of Tortures frighted me to take
That horrid sin upon me. I am as innocent
And free as are the starres from plotting treason
Gainst their first mover.
Pedro. I was then in France When of your fathers murther the report Did fill all Paris.
Man. Such a reverend habit Should not give harbour to so blacke a falshood.
Hen. Tis blacke, & of my dying; for 'twas I To cheate my brother of my fathers lands, Layd this most hellish plott.
Fer. 3[55] hellish sins, Robbery, Rape & Murther.
Hen. I'me guilty of all Three; his soul's as white And cleare from murther as this holy man From killing mee.
Pedro. No [know], there's a thing about me
Shall strike thee into dust & make thy tongue
With trembling to proclayme thyselfe a Villaine
More then thou yet hast done:—See, tis my Eye.