Stand, who comes here? what means this knave to peep
And skulk abroad, when honest men should sleep?
Speak, what’s thy name? and quickly tell me this,
Whither thou goest, and what thy business is?
EXCISEMAN.
Whate’er my business is, thou foul-mouthed scold,
I’d have you know I scorn to be controlled
By any man that lives; much less by thou,
Who blurtest out thou know’st not what, nor how;
I go about my lawful business; and
I’ll make you smart for bidding of me stand.
DEATH.
Imperious coxcomb! is your stomach vexed?
Pray slack your rage, and hearken what comes next:
I have a writ to take you up; therefore,
To chafe your blood, I bid you stand, once more.
EXCISEMAN.
A writ to take me up! excuse me, sir,
You do mistake, I am an officer
In public service, for my private wealth;
My business is, if any seek by stealth
To undermine the state, I do discover
Their falsehood; therefore hold your hand,—give over.
DEATH.
Nay, fair and soft! ’tis not so quickly done
As you conceive it is: I am not gone
A jot the sooner for your hasty chat,
Nor bragging language; for I tell you flat
’Tis more than so, though fortune seem to thwart us,
Such easy terms I don’t intend shall part us.
With this impartial arm I’ll make you feel
My fingers first, and with this shaft of steel
I’ll peck thy bones! as thou alive wert hated,
So dead, to dogs thou shalt be segregated.