Fee. Angry with me? why, damn me, sir, and you be, out with your sword. It is not with me, I tell you, as it was yesterday; I am fleshed, man, I. Have you anything to say to me?
Bold. Nothing but this: how many do you think you have slain last night?
Fee. Why, five; I never kill less.
Bold. There were but four. My lord, you had best provide yourself and begone; three you have slain stark dead.
Fee. You jest!
Bold. It is most true. Welltried is fled.
Fee. Why, let the roarers meddle with me another time: as for flying, I scorn it; I killed 'em like a man. When did you ever see a lord hang for anything? We may kill whom we list. Marry, my conscience pricks me. Ah! plague a' this drink! what things it makes us do! I do no more remember this now than a puppy-dog.
O bloody lord, that art bedaub'd with gore!
Vain world, adieu, for I will roar no more.
Bold. Nay, stay, my lord: I did but try the tenderness of your conscience. All this is nothing so; but, to sweeten the tale I have for you, I foretold you this feigned mischance.