That makes men bow, and flings a casting-net
About their souls, and that all men would go
And barter those poor flames—their spirits—only
You bribe them with the safety of your gold.
CATHLEEN.
Praise be to God, to Mary, and the angels,
That I am wealthy. Wherefore do they sell?
FIRST MERCHANT.
The demons give a hundred crowns and more
For a poor soul like his who lies asleep