Chancellor. Your Majesty’s commands are the breath of our nostrils.
Peter. If these rascals are amiss, I will try my new cargo of Livonian hemp upon ’em.
Chancellor. [Returning.] Sire, sire!
Peter. Speak, fellow! Surely they have not condemned him to death, without giving themselves time to read the accusation, that thou comest back so quickly.
Chancellor. No, sire! Nor has either been done.
Peter. Then thy head quits thy shoulders.
Chancellor. O sire!
Peter. Curse thy silly sires! what art thou about?
Chancellor. Alas! he fell.
Peter. Tie him up to thy chair, then. Cowardly beast! what made him fall?