Zar. My cock stands perching like a cock o' the game, with a red coal for his crest, instead of a comb; and for my powder, 'tis but touch and take.
Bal. I have tickling gear too; anon I'll cry, here I have it, and yonder I see it. But, Zarack, is't policy for us to kill these bald-pates?
Zar. Is't policy for us to save ourselves? If they live, we die. Is't not wisdom then to send them to heaven, rather than be sent ourselves? Come, you black slave, be resolute. This way they come; here they will stand, and yonder will I stand.
Bal. And in yonder hole I.
Zar. Our amiable faces cannot be seen if we keep close; therefore hide your cock's head, lest his burning cock's-comb betray us. But soft; which of the two shall be thy white?[65]
Bal. That black villain friar Cole.
Zar. I shall have a sharp piece of service; friar Crab shall be my man. Farewell, and be resolute.
Bal. Zounds! Zarack, I shall never have the heart to do it.
Zar. You rogue, think who commands—Eleazar. Who shall rise—Balthazar. Who shall die—a lousy friar. Who shall live—our good lord and master, the negro-king of Spain.
Bal. Cole, thou art but a dead man, and shalt turn to ashes.