JAILER.
And hang for’t afterward!
PALAMON.
By this good light,
Had I a sword I would kill thee.
JAILER.
Why, my Lord?
PALAMON.
Thou bringst such pelting, scurvy news continually,
Thou art not worthy life. I will not go.
JAILER.
Indeed, you must, my lord.
PALAMON.
May I see the garden?
JAILER.
No.
PALAMON.
Then I am resolved, I will not go.
JAILER.
I must constrain you then; and, for you are dangerous,
I’ll clap more irons on you.
PALAMON.
Do, good keeper.
I’ll shake ’em so, ye shall not sleep;
I’ll make you a new morris. Must I go?