._ No threatning,
For we shall cool you Sir; why did'st thou basely
Attempt the murder of the Merchant _Goswin_?

_Hem._ What power hast thou to ask me?

_Ger._ I will know it,
Or fley thee till thy pain discover it.

_Hem._ He did me wrong, base wrong.

_Ger._ That cannot save ye,
Who sent ye hither? and what further villanies
Have you in hand?

_Hem._ Why would'st thou know? what profit,
If I had any private way, could rise
Out of my knowledge, to do thee commodity?
Be sorry for what thou hast done, and make amends fool,
I'le talk no further to thee, nor these Rascals.

_Ger._ Tye him to that tree.

_Hem._ I have told you whom I follow.

_Ger._ The Devil you should do, by your villanies,
Now he that has the best way, wring it from him.

_Hig._ I undertake it: turn him to the Sun boyes;
Give me a fine sharp rush, will ye confess yet?

_Hem._ Ye have rob'd me already, now you'le murder me.

_Hig._ Murder your nose a little: does your head purge Sir?
To it again, 'twill do ye good.

_Hem._ Oh,
I cannot tell you any thing.

_Ger._ Proceed then.

_Hig._ There's maggots in your nose, I'le fetch 'em out Sir.

_Hem._ O my head breaks.

_Hig._ The best thing for the rheum Sir,
That falls into your worships eyes.

_Hem._ Hold, hold.

_Ger._ Speak then.

_Hem._ I know not what.

_Hig._ It lyes in's brain yet,
In lumps it lyes, I'le fetch it out the finest;
What pretty faces the fool makes? heigh!

_Hem._ Hold,
Hold, and I'le tell ye all, look in my doublet;
And there within the lining in a paper,
You shall find all.

_Ger._ Go fetch that paper hither,
And let him loose for this time.

_Enter_ Hubert.

_Hub._ Good ev'n my honest friends.

_Ger._ Good ev'n good fellow.

_Hub._ May a poor huntsman, with a merry heart,
A voice shall make the forest ring about him,
Get leave to live amongst ye? true as steel, boyes?
That knows all chases, and can watch all hours,
And with my quarter staff, though the Devil bid stand,
Deal such an alms, shall make him roar again?
Prick ye the fearfull hare through cross waves, sheep-walks,
And force the crafty Reynard climb the quicksetts;
Rouse ye the lofty Stag, and with my bell-horn,
Ring him a knel, that all the woods shall mourn him,
'Till in his funeral tears, he fall before me?
The _Polcat_, _Marterne_, and the rich skin'd _Lucerne_
I know to chase, the Roe, the wind out-stripping
_Isgrin_ himself, in all his bloody anger
I can beat from the bay