Why, howe is't, _Denis_?
_Denis_. Never woorse--the fryar, Syr--
_D'Av_. What of him?
_Denis_. The slave that would not leive the place but carried,
Is of himself com back.
_D'Av_. Whether?
_Denis_. Looke theere.
_D'Av_. That which I took to bee meare fantasy
I finde nowe to bee real; murder is
A cryinge sinne, and canot be conceal'd.
Yet his returne is straunge.
_Denis_, 'Tis most prodigious;
The very thought of it hath put a cricke
Into my necke allredy.
_D'Av_. One further desperate tryall I will make
And putt it too adventer.
_Denis_. Pray hows that, Syr?
_D'Av_. There's in my stable an ould stallion, once
A lusty horse but now past servyce.
_Denis_. Godd [_sic_], syr.
_D'Av_. Him I'l have sadled and capparisond.
Heare in the hall a rusty Armor hanges,
Pistolls in rotten cases, an ould sword,
And a cast lance to all these sutable.
I'l have them instantly tooke downe.
_Den_. And then?
_D'Av_. In these I'l arme the fryar from head to knee;
Mount him into his saddle, with stronge cords
There bind him fast, and to his gauntlet hand
Fasten his lance; for basses[144] tis no matter,
These his grey skyrts will serve.
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