Omnes. How?
Strange. Peace, peace! For heaven's sake, peace!
Come, sir, I'll carry you to a surgeon.
Here's gold to stop thy throat. For God's sake, peace!
Capt. Pouts. Sirrah, you have brought me to a surgeon already:
I'll be even with you.
Kath. Of all men living I could marry thee,
Were not my heart given to another man.
Sir, you did speak of Strange?
Capt. Pouts. These women are as crafty as the devil.
Yes, I did speak of him: Sir John, my lord,
Know Strange is murder'd by that villain's hand,
And by his wife's consent.
Omnes. How?
Sir J. Wor. God forbid!
Capt. Pouts. Search presently the closet and the vault,
There you shall find his body: 'tis too true.
The reason all may guess: her husband, wanting
Spirit to do on me what he hath done,
In hope to marry her, he hath murder'd him.
Kath. To marry me! No, villain: I do hate him
On this report worse than I do thyself;
And may the plagues and tortures of a land
Seize me if this be not an innocent hand.
Sir J. Wor. 'Fore God, 'tis most like truth.
Son Scudmore, pray
Look to this fellow: gentlemen, assist.
Torches! some torches! I'll go search myself.