M. Merry. How feels your soul to God?
R. Roister. I am nigh-gone.
M. Merry. And shall we hence straight?
R. Roister. Yea.
M. Merry. Placebo dilexi. [ut infra.[112]
Master Roister Doister will straight go home, and die.
R. Roister. Heigho, alas! the pangs of death my heart do break.
M. Merry. Hold your peace, for shame, sir! a dead man may not speak
Ne quando. What mourners and what torches shall we have?