What, sir, art thou so pure holy? Ah, see, this caitiff would be praised, I trow; And you thrive this year, I will lose a penny. Lo, sirs, outward he beareth a fair face; But, and he meet with a wench in a privy place, I trow he would show her but little grace: By God, ye may trust me. HICKSCORNER. Lo, will ye not see this caitiff's meaning? He would destroy us all, and all our kin, Yet had I liever see him hanged by the chin, Rather than that should be brought about; And with this dagger thou shalt have a clout, Without thou wilt be lightly be gone. IMAGINATION. Nay, brother, lay hand on him soon; For he japed my wife, and made me cuckold, And yet the traitor was so bold, That he stale forty pound of mine in money. HICKSCORNER. By Saint Mary, then he shall not scape; We will lead him straight to Newgate, For ever there shall he lie. FREEWILL. Ah, see, ah, see, sirs, what I have brought, A medicine for a pair of sore shins; At the King's Bench, sirs, I have you sought, But I pray you, who shall wear these? HICKSCORNER. By God, this fellow that may not go hence, I will go give him these hose rings; Now, i-faith, they be worth forty pence, But to his hands I lack two bonds. IMAGINATION. Hold, whoreson, here is an halter; Bind him fast, and make him sure. PITY. O men, let truth, that is the true man, Be your guider, or else ye be forlorn; Lay no false witness, as nigh as ye can, On none; for afterward ye will repent it full sore. FREEWILL. Nay, nay, I care not therefore. HICKSCORNER. Yea, when my soul hangeth on the hedge-cast stones, For I tell thee plainly by Cock's bones, Thou shalt be guided, and laid in irons, They fared even so. PITY. Well-a-way,[136] sir, what have I do? IMAGINATION. Well, well, that thou shalt know, ere thou go. PITY. O sirs, I see it cannot be amended, You do me wrong, for I have not offended: Remember God that is our heaven king, For he will reward you after your deserving; When death with his mace doth you arrest; We all to him owe fea'ty and service, From the ladder of life down he will thee thrust, Then mastership may not help, nor great office. FREEWILL. What, death, and he were here, he should sit by thee; Trowest thou, that he be able to strive with us three? Nay, nay, nay. IMAGINATION. Well, fellows, now let us go our way; For at Shooter's Hill we have a game to play. HICKSCORNER. In good faith, I will tarry no lenger space. FREEWILL. Beshrew him for me, that is last out of this place. PITY.