tear wolves, wolves rend the stricken deer.

_3rd Poach._ Well, now, I thank thee, friend
Gregory. Thou art a true man. I will so belabour and
flay any of the cyder-blooded rascals, an thy bitch
shall hold him; 'twill do a man good to hear of it.

_1st Poach._ I know the bitch. She'll kill them
outright! These be right times. There be no inquests
now, Master Gregory?

_4th Poach._ What's that to me more than you
others? I did not murder him!

_1st Poach._ Who? The Puritan young gentleman
whom Noll the brewer, that is general now, made
such a stir about--

_3rd Poach._ As if plenty didn't die in these wars--

_1st Poach._ Or the girl, Gregory! eh? the girl by
the well, with her finger cut, and her throat--

_4th Poach._ Damn thee, have done! She was dead,
ere I found her, and I did but take--

_1st Poach._ The ring, thou wouldst say.

_2nd and 3rd Poach._ Come, confess now!

_Arth._ [_Aside_] This is black devilry. Alas! poor England!
How many private, sleeping villanies
Now wake to horrid life that else had slept,
But for the times' most bloody anarchy?

_2nd Poach._ They say this Cromwell is near these parts.

_4th Poach._ I heard another speak! [_Loud_] I never
saw the girl till she was brought in, I tell ye.

_2nd Poach._ I heard it too.

_1st Poach._ 'Twas a cricket, or some such fowl.

_3rd Poach._ There's some one near. Look sharp!

_4th Poach._ Let's beat about--
[_Loudly_] As for the girl, I saw her brought in. 'Twas
a piteous sight--A love business, mark ye! I did not
find her. [_They discover ARTHUR._]

_1st Poach._ Ha!

_4th Poach._ Silence him!

_3rd Poach._ Curse thee, what brings thee here?--

_Arth._ Offhands! ye know me not. [_To 4th POACHER._]
Thou murderous dog!
Wilt cut my throat as thou didst hers?--

[_4th POACHER staggers back._]

_4th Poach._ Will no one finish him? 'Tis a spy;
he will tell of ye all.

[_ARTHUR struggles and they strike at him._]

[_Enter CROMWELL, R.U.E._]

_Crom._ Who be these knaves? What, murder!
Ha! then strike:
Down with the sons of Belial!

[_Strikes down 4th POACHER with his sword. The rest fly._]

The Lord is merciful to thee, young man! [_To ARTHUR._]
Another moment, and thy soul had fled--
Wherefore, I hope, since it hath chanced so,
And yet not chanc'd, since 'tis appointed thus,
That no one falls or lives, unless the God
Of battles hath decreed. Wherefore I trust
Thou art of the go