I send to heaven, when all is view’d
Who should but I then altogether
Have thank of all their coming thither?’
The Pardoner here interrupts him captiously—
‘If ye kill’d a thousand in an hour’s space,
When come they to heaven, dying out of grace?’
But the Poticary not so baffled, retorts—
‘If a thousand pardons about your necks were tied;
When come they to heaven, if they never died?
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