Lay to your hand, away him to bring. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ AMBIDEXTER. AMBIDEXTER. O’ the passion of God, yonder is a heavy court: Some weeps, some wails, and some make great sport. Lord Smirdis by Cruelty and Murder is slain; But, Jesus! for want of him, how some do complain! If I should have had a thousand pound, I could not forbear weeping. Now Jesus have his blessed soul in keeping! Ah good lord to think on him, how it doth me grieve! I cannot forbear weeping, ye may me believe. [_Weep._ O my heart! how my pulses do beat: With sorrowful lamentations I am in such a heat. Ah my heart! how for him it doth sorrow! Nay, I have done in faith now, and God give you good morrow! Ha, ha, weep! nay, laugh, with both hands to play; The king through his cruelty hath made him away. But hath not he wrought a most wicked deed? Because king after him he should not proceed, His own natural brother, and having no more, To procure his death by violence sore; In spite because his brother should never be king, His heart being wicked consented to this thing. Now he hath no more brothers nor kindred alive: If the king use this gear still, he cannot long thrive. _Enter_ HOB _and_ LOB. HOB. God’s hat, neighbours, come away; it’s time to market to go. LOB. God’s vast, neighbour, zay ye zo? The clock hath stricken vive, ich think, by lakin:[242] Bum vay,[243] vrom sleep cham not very well waken. But, neighbour Hob, neighbour Hob, what have ye to zell? HOB. Bum troth, neighbour Lob, to you I chil tell: Chave two goslings and a chine of good pork; There is no vatter between this and York. Chave a pot of strawberries and a calf’s head, A zennight zince to-morrow it hath been dead. LOB. Chave a score of eggs and of butter a pound: Yesterday a nest of goodly young rabbits I vound. Chave forty things mo, of more and of less; My brain is not very good them to express. But God’s hat, neighbour, wot’st what? HOB. No, not well, neighbour, what’s that? LOB. Bum vay, neighbour, master king is a zhrode lad; Zo God help me and holidam, I think the vool be mad: Zome zay he deal cruelly, his brother he did kill; And also a goodly young lad’s heart-blood he did spill. HOB. Vorbod of God, neighbour, has he played such a voolish deed? AMBIDEXTER.