The things we do!

This havinge done, to prevent deathe and shame
By the same stepps I'l back the way I came.
[_Fryer sett up and left. Exit_.
_Enter Denis half unredy_.
_Denis_. This is the penalty belonges to servyce:
Masters still plott to theire owne private ends,
And wee that are theire slaves and ministers
Are cheef still in the troble; they ingrosse
The pleasure and the proffitt, and wee only
The swett and payne. My Lord hath doon a mischeef
And nowe I must not sleepe.--What art thou?
None of the howse sure, I should knwe thy face then:
Beesydes my Lord gives no such lyverye.
Nowe in the name of heaven, what art thou? speake,
Speake if thou beest a man! or if a ghost
Then glyde hence lyke a shadowe! tis the--oh!--
The fryar hathe nimbly skipt back over the wall,
Hath lyke a surly Justyce bensht himself
And sitts heare to accuse uss! where's my Lord?
Helpe, Helpe! his murdered ghost is com from Hell
On earth to cry _Vindicta_![143]
_Enter L. D'Averne_.
_D'Av_. What clamors this?
_Denis_. Oh Syr--
_D'Av_.


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