Pem. Deare friend.
Fer. Push! meet me.
Pem. Ferdinand, I will.
Fer. Revenge, smile on, thou shalt drink bloud thy fill.
[Exeunt.
[SCENE 3.]
Enter Peter standing sentronell.
Pet. This is my wayting night: tis for no good
That I stand sentronell. Well, good or ill,
I care not greatly, so I get the gold:
Therefore, to avoyd prolixity, here walke I.
Here comes the men that must reward my paine.
Enter Burbon and Rodoricke.
Bur. Have you the poyson?