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away like sheep: neither is this the black dog of Newgate.?
Banks. No good-man son-fool; but the dog of hell-gate. Cud. I say, good-man father-fool, it's a lie.
а. All. He's bewitch'd.
Cud. A gross lie, as big as myself. The devil in St. Dunstan's will as soon drink with this poor cur, as with any Temple-bar-laundress, that washes and wrings lawyers.
Dog. Bow, wow, wow, wow !
Cud. The voice of a dog? if that voice were a dog's, what voice had my mother? so am I a dog: bow, wow, wow! It was I that bark'd so, father, to make coxcombs of these clowns.
Banks. However, we'll be coxcomb'd longer: away, therefore, to the justice for a warrant; and then, Gammer Gurton, have at your needle of witchcraft. Saw. And prick thine own eyes out. Go, peevish fools! [Exeunt Banks, Rat, and
Countrymen. ? The black dog of Newgate.] This antient Cerberus is unknown to me. Perhaps he formed the sign of some noted tavern contiguous to that immanis aula : what advanced him to this bad eminence must be left to the discussion of future critics. The water spaniel, mentioned here and elsewhere by Cuddy, was an animal in great request. Islington, at that time, abounded in ponds, some of them of considerable size; and to hunt ducks in these, appears, from our old dramatists, to have been the favourite recreation of the holyday citizens. Islington formed at once the boundary of their travels and their pleasures. To advance farther, and hunt the stag, like their desperate descendants, in the unknown wilds of Epping Forest, would have appeared to these placid sportsmen like following Shah Allum to a tiger-hunt.
Cud. Ningle, you had like to have spoiled all with your bow-ings. I was glad to put them off with one of my dog-tricks, on a sudden; I am bewitched, little Cost-me-nought, to love thee,a pox,—that morrice makes me spit in thy mouth.
- I dare not stay; farewell, ningle; you whoreson dog's nose! farewell, witch!
[Erit. Dog. Bow, wow, wow, wow!
Saw. Mind him not, he's not worth thy worrying; Run at a fairer game: that foul-mouth'd knight, Scurvy Sir Arthur, fly at him, my Tommy, And pluck out's throat. Dog. No, there's a dog already biting, - his
conscience. : Saw. That's a sure blood-hound. Come, let's
home and play; Our black work ended, we'll make holyday.
SCENE II.- A Bed-room in CARTER'S House.
Frank in a Slumber.
Kath. Brother, brother! so sound asleep? that's
well. Frank. (Waking.) No, not I, sister; he that's
Kath. My good sweet brother;
Though her loss strikes you through, and that I
feel The blow as deep, I pray thee be not cruel To kill me too, by seeing you cast away In your own helpless sorrow. Good love, sit up; And if you can give physic to yourself, I shall be well. Frank. I'll do my best.
. Kath. I thank you; What do
look about you for?
Kath. Dear heart, what?
Kath. Why do you talk so? Would you were fast asleep.
Frank. No, no; I am not idle.8 But here's my meaning; being robb’d as I am, Why should my soul, which married was to her's, Live in divorce, and not fly after her? Why should not I walk hand in hand with Death, To find my love out?
Kath. That were well, indeed, Your time being come; when Death is sent to call
you, No doubt you shall meet her.
8 No, no, I am not idle.] i.e. Wandering. He judges from Katherine's speech, that she suspects him, as indeed she does, of being light-headed.
Frank. Why should not I Go without calling?
Kath. Yes, brother, so you might; Were there no place to go to when you're gone, But only this.
Frank. 'Troth, sister, thou say'st true; For when a man has been an hundred years Hard travelling o'er the tottering bridge of age, He's not the thousandth part upon
way: All life is but a wandering to find home; When we are gone, we're there. Happy were man, Could here his voyage end; he should not then Answer, how well or ill he steer'd his soul, By heaven's or by hell's compass; how he put in (Losing bless'd goodness' shore) at such a sin; Nor how life's dear provision he has spent, Nor how far he in's navigation went Beyond commission: this were a fine reign, To do ill, and not hear of it again; Yet then were man more wretched than a beast; For, sister, our dead pay is sure the best. Kath. 'Tis so, the best or worst; and I wish
Heaven To pay (and so I know it will) that traitor, That devil Somerton (who stood in mine eye Once as an angel) home to his deservings: What villain but himself, once loving me, With Warbeck's soul would pawn his own to hell, To be revenged on my poor sister!
Frank. Slaves! A pair of merciless slaves! speak no more of them.
Kath. I think this talking hurts you.
Frank. Does me no good, I'm sure; I pay
Frank. What's ready? what's ready?
you; [Enter Maid with the chicken. Sweet, wilt thou eat?
Frank. A pretty stomach on a sudden, yes.There's one i'th' house can play upon a lute; Good girl, let's hear him too.
Kath. You shall, dear brother. [Exit Maid. Would I were a musician, you should hear How I would feast your ear!—[Lute plays within.]
-stay, mend your pillow, And raise you higher.
Frank. I am up too high, Am I not sister, now?
Kath. No, no; 'tis well. Fall to, fall to.--A knife! here's ne'er a knife. Brother, I'll look out your's. [Takes up his vest.
Enter Dog, shrugging as it were for joy, and
dances. Frank. Sister, O sister, I'm ill upon a sudden, and can eat nothing. Kath. In very deed you shall; the want of food