Page:Miscellaneous Plays 1.pdf/134

114

Ha! what hole of the earth hath cast thee up? What thing art thou? and what would'st thou with me?

My sides are cold; a dead man needs no cloak.

'Tis true indeed, but do not strip the living. Where dost thou run to now? where wert thou hid?

Beat me thyself, but do not tell of me.

I would not harm thee for a greater fault. I'm sorry thou art cold; here is my cloak: Thou hast said well; a dead man needs it not. I know thee now; thou art the wretched negro Who serves the prisoners; I have observ'd thee: I'm sorry for thee; thou art bare enough, And winter is at hand.

Ha! art thou sorry that the negro's cold? Where wert thou born who art so pitiful? I will not take thy cloak, but I will love thee. They shail not cut thy head off.

Go thy ways; Go sculk within thy hiding place again, And, when the cell is open'd, save thyself.