Page. My Lord, it be but a rude petitioner hath come.
He tells no beads, nor maketh any prayers,
But rather stamps an’ mutters, raves an’ swears,
And sendeth Rome an’ all her cardinals
To Hell twice every minute.
Pet. Hale him to prison, the loud, blaspheming hound,
The damp of some rock cell would bring him round
To proper reverence for thy holy office,
He may intend a murder on thy person,
Let him not in.