Con. You know that best, but every one doe know You and your brother murthered Maister Beech, And his poore boy that dwelt at Lambert hill.
Rach. I murthered? my brother knowes that I, Did not consent to either of their deathes.
Con. That must be tride; where doth your brother lye?
Rach. Here in his bed; me thinks he's not a sleepe.
Con. Now, Maister Merry, are you in a sweate? [Throwes his night cap away.
Merry sigh. No verily, I am not in a sweate.
Con. Some sodaine feare affrights you; whats the cause?
Mer. Nothing but that you wak'd me unawares.
Con. In the Queenes name I doe commaund you rise, And presently to goe along with us. [Riseth up.
Mer. With all my hart; what, doe you know the cause?