_Bradshaw._ A lean-faced writhen knave, Hawk-nosed and very hollow-eyed, 50 With mighty furrows in his stormy brows; Long hair down his shoulders curled; His chin was bare, but on his upper lip A mutchado, which he wound about his ear. _Will._ What apparel had he? _Bradshaw._ A watchet satin doublet all-to torn, The inner side did bear the greater show; A pair of thread-bare velvet hose, seam rent, A worsted stocking rent above the shoe, A livery cloak, but all the lace was off; 60 ’Twas bad, but yet it served to hide the plate. _Will._ Sirrah Shakebag, canst thou remember since we trolled the bowl at Sittingburgh, where I broke the tapster’s head of the Lion with a cudgel-stick? _Shakebag._ Ay, very well, Will. _Will._ Why, it was with the money that the plate was sold for. Sirrah Bradshaw, what wilt thou give him that can tell thee who sold thy plate? _Bradshaw._ Who, I pray thee, good Will? _Will._ Why, ’twas one Jack Fitten. He’s now in Newgate for stealing a horse, and shall be arraigned the next ’size. 72 _Bradshaw._ Why, then let Lord Cheiny seek Jack Fitten forth, For I’ll back and tell him who robbed him of his plate. This cheers my heart; Master Greene, I’ll leave you, For I must to the Isle of Sheppy with speed. _Greene._ Before you go, let me intreat you To carry this letter to Mistress Arden of Feversham And humbly recommend me to herself. _Bradshaw._ That will I, Master Greene, and so farewell. 80 Here, Will, there’s a crown for thy good news. [_Exit Bradshaw._ _Will._ Farewell, Bradshaw; I’ll drink no water for thy sake whilst this lasts.--Now, gentleman, shall we have your company to London? _Greene._ Nay, stay, sirs: A little more I needs must use your help, And in a matter of great consequence, Wherein if you’ll be secret and profound, I’ll give you twenty angels for your pains. 89 _Will._ How? twenty angels? give my fellow George Shakebag and me twenty angels? And if thou’lt have thy own father slain, that thou may’st inherit his land, we’ll kill him. 93 _Shakebag._ Ay, thy mother, thy sister, thy brother, or all thy kin. _Greene._ Well, this it is: Arden of Feversham Hath highly wronged me about the Abbey land, That no revenge but death will serve the turn. Will you two kill him? here’s the angels down, And I will lay the platform of his death. 100 _Will._ Plat me no platforms; give me the money, and I’ll stab him as he stands pissing against a wall, but I’ll kill him. _Shakebag._ Where is he? _Greene._ He is now at London, in Aldersgate Street. _Shakebag._ He’s dead as if he had been condemned by an Act of Parliament, if once Black Will and I swear his death. _Greene_. Here is ten pound, and when he is dead, Ye shall have twenty more. 110