Ant. E. Dissembling harlot, them art false in all,
And art confederate with a damned pack
100 To make a loathsome abject scorn of me:
But with these nails I’ll pluck out [these false] eyes,
That would behold in me this shameful sport[. ]
[Enter] three or four, and offer to bind him. He strives.
Adr. O, bind him, bind him! let him not come near me.
Pinch. More company! The fiend is strong within him.
105 Luc. Ay me, poor man, how pale and wan he looks!
Ant. E. What, will you murder [me? Thou gaoler, thou,]