_2._ 'Tis an old woman That keeps sheep hereabouts: it turns, and stretches. _4._ Do's she keep sheep with a sword? _3._ It has a Beard too. _1._ Peace, peace: it is the Devil _Roderigo_, Peace of all hands, and look. _2._ 'Tis he. _3._ Speak softly. _4._ Now we may fit him. _3._ Stay, stay: let's be provident. _1._ Kill him, and wake him then. _4._ Let me come to him, Ev'n one blow at his pate, if e're he wake more. _3._ So, so, so, lay that by. _2._ I must needs kill him, It stands with my reputation. _3._ Stand off, I say: And let us some way make him sure; then torture him. To kill him presently, has no pleasure in't. H'as been tormenting of us, at least this twelve moneth. _Rod._ Oh me! _All._ He comes: he comes. _4._ Has he no Guns about him? _3._ Softly again: no, no: take that hand easily, And tye it fast there: that to th' other bough there. Fast, fast, and easie lest he wake. _2._ Have we got ye? This was a benefit we never aim'd at. _3._ Out with your knives, and let's carve this Cockthief, Daintily carve him. _2._ I would he had been used thus Ten year agoe; we might have thought we had children. _3._ O, that Sir _Nicholas_ now our Priest were here, What a sweet Homily would he say over him, For ringing all in, with his wife in the Bell-frey! He would stand up stiffe girt, now pounce him lightly And as he roars, and rages, let's go deeper: Come near: you are dim-ey'd: on with your spectacles. _Rod._ O, what torments me thus? what slaves, what villains? O spare me, do not murther me. _3._ We'l but tickle ye, You have tickled us at all points. _4._ Where are his _Emblemes_? _Enter_ Pedro. _Rod._ As ye are men, and _Christians_. _2._ Yes we hear ye, And you shall hear of us too. _Rod._ O no mercy. _Ped._ What noise is this? what roar? I cannot find her, She is got free again: but where, or which way? _Rod._ O villains, beasts. _Ped._ Murdering a man, ye Rascals? Ye inhumane slaves, off, off, and leave this cruelty, Or as I am a Gentleman: do ye brave me? Then have among ye all, ye slaves, ye cowards, Take up that sword, and stand: stay ye base rascals, Ye cut-throat rogues. _All._ Away, away. [_Exeunt_ Pes. _Ped._ Ye dog-whelps. _Rod._ O, I am now more wretched far, than ever. _Ped._ A violence to that habit? ha? _Roderigo_, What makes he here, thus clad? is it repentance, Or only a fair shew to guile his mischiefs? _Rod._ This benefit has made me shame to see him, To know him, blush. _Ped._ You are not much hurt? _Rod._ No Sir; All I can call a hurt, sticks in my conscience, That pricks and tortures me.