But are you sure that they are dead?
Castile.
Ay, slain too sure.
Hieronimo.
What, and yours too?
Viceroy.
Ay, all are dead; not one of them survive.
Hieronimo.
Nay, then I care not; come, and we shall be friends:
Let us lay our heads together.
See, here's a goodly noose will hold them all.