Page:The Lamentable and True Tragedie of M. Arden of Feversham in Kent (1592).pdf/28

 Will. How? twenty Angells? giue my fellow George shakbag and me, twenty Angels, And if thoult haue thy owne father slaine, That thou mayst inherit his land, weele kill him.

Shak. I thy Mother, thy sister, thy brother, or all thy kin.

Gre. Well this it is, Arden of Feuershame, Hath highly wrongd me about the Abby land, That no reuendge but death will serue the turne: Will you two kill him, heeres the Angels downe, And I will lay the platforme of his death:

Will. Plat me no platformes giue me the money, And ile stab him as he stands pissing against a wall, but Ile kill him.

Sha. Where is he?

Greene. He is now at London, in Aldersgate streete,

Shak. He's dead, as if he had beene condemned By an act of parliament, if once Black Will and I Sweare his death,

Gre. Here is ten pound, and when he is dead, Ye shall haue twenty more:

Will. My fingers itches to be at the pesant, Ah that I might be set a worke thus through the yeere, And that murther would grow to an occupation: That a man might without daunger of law, Zounds I warrant, I should be warden of the company, Come let vs be going, and wele bate at Rochester, Where Ile giue thee a gallon of Sack, To hansell the match with all.

Mich. I haue gotten suche a letter, As will touche the Painter, And thus it is.

''My duetye remembred Mistres Susan, hoping in God you be in good health, as I Michaell was at the making heereof. This is to certifie you, that as the Turtle true, when she hath lost her mate,'' sitteth