Mous. (crouching on ground).
Spare me your tongue! I well know what I am,
And what I’ve done. My life is forfeited.
Strike at the heart! Be quick—I am prepared!
Flor. Hast thou no prayer to utter?
Mous.No, not I.
Curse you, be quick, I say! Yet stay—one word.
Before you pass your sword between my ribs,
Look at yourself, sir knight, then look at me!
You, comely, straight-limbed, fair of face and form—