Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/125

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Torches, fire! But stay that devil's brat who slips away To call the soldiers from the guard-house up. He doubles like a hare, stones, stones and staves. A hit, a hit! Ah, would you? Head him off.

Shame on you, spare him, he is but a child.

A wolf cub can but grow into a wolf, Better to take him ere his fangs be grown. He bleeds, he bleedstrample him underfoot, There, there, take that from blesséd Babylas To Artemis, your demon patroness, Enough, enough, a fine day's work is here, There boy, get up.