Vesu. This is the man, conferring of his Lambes, That slew a Lambe worth all his flock besides.
Allen. What is the time to let the Weathers blood?
The forward spring, that hath such store of grasse,
Hath fild them full of ranke unwholsome blood,
Which must be purg'd; else, when the winter comes,
The rot will leave me nothing but their skinnes.
Fall. Chil let om blood, but yet it is no time, Untill the zygne be gone below the hart.[41]
Vesu. Forbeare a while this idle businesse, And talke of matters of more consequence.
Fall. Che tell you plaine, you are no honest man,
To call a shepheards care an idle toye.
What though we have a little merry sport
With flowrie gyrlonds, and an Oaten pipe,
And jolly friskins on a holly-day,
Yet is a shepheards cure a greater carke
Then sweating Plough-men with their busie warke.
Vesu. Hence! leave your sheepish ceremoniall!—
And now, Fallerio, in the Princes name,
I do arrest you, for the cruell murther
Of young Pertillo, left unto your charge,
Which you discharged with a bloody writ,
Sign'd by the hands of those you did suborne.
Nay, looke not strange, we have such evidence,
To ratifie your Stigian cruelty,
That cannot be deluded any way.
Allen. Alas, my Lords, I know not what you say! As for my Nephew, he, I hope, is well: I sent him yesterday to Padua.
Alber. I, he is well, in such a vengers handes, As will not winck at your iniquitie.
Allen. By heaven and earth my soule is innocent! Say what you will, I know my conscience.
Fal.—To be afflicted with a scourge of care, Which my oreweaning rashnesse did infflict.