Of this unheard of, savadge massacre,
Oh be farre of to harbour such a thought
As this audacious murtherer put in ure![17]
I see your sorrowes flowe up to the brim,
And overflowe your cheekes with brinish teares,
But though this sight bring surfet to the eye,
Delight your eares with pleasing harmonie,[18]
That eares may counterchecke your eyes, and say,
Why shed you teares, this deede is but a playe? 
His worke is done, he seekes to hide his sinne;
Ile waile his woe before his woe begin. [Exit Trueth.

Mer.  Now will I high me to the water side,
And fling this heavie burthen in a ditche,
Whereof my soule doth feele so great a waight
That it doth almost presse me downe with feare.

[ACT THE THIRD.]

[SCENE I.]

    Enter Rachell.

Harke, Rachell, I will crosse the water straight
And fling this middle mention of a man
Into some ditch; then high me home againe,
To rid my house of that is left behinde.

Rach.  Where have you laid the legs & battered head?

Mer.  Under the fagots where it lay before.  Helpe me to put this trunk into the bag.

Rach.  My heart will not endure to handle it, The sight hereof doth make me quake for feare,

Mer.  Ile do’t my selfe; onely drie up the blood, And burne the clothes as you have done before. [Exit.

Rach.  I feare thy soule will burne in flames of hell,
Unless repentance wash wash away thy sinne
With clensing teares of true contrition. 
Ah, did not nature oversway my will,
The world should know this plot of damned ill.

[Exit.

[SCENE II.]

Enter two Murtherers with Pertillo.

Per.  I am so wearie in this combrous wood, That I must needes go sit me downe and rest.

1 Mur.  What were we best? to kill him unawares, Or give him notice what we doe intend?

2 Mur.  Whie then belike you meane to do your charge, And feel no tast of pittie in your hart.

1 Mur.  Of pittie, man! that never enters heere,
And if it should, Ide threat my craven heart
To stab it home for harbouring such a thought. 
I see no reason whie I should relent;
It is a charitable vertuous deede,
To end this princkocke[19] from this sinfull world.

2 Mur.  Such charitie will never have reward,
Unlesse it be with sting of conscience;
And thats a torment worse than Sisipus,
That rowles a restlesse stone against the hill.

1 Mur.  My conscience is not prickt with such conceit.

2 Mur.  That shews thee further off from hoped grace.

1 Mur.  Grace me no graces, I respect no grace,
But with a grace, to give a gracelesse stab;
To chop folkes legges and armes off by the stumpes,
To see what shift theile make to scramble home;
Pick out mens eyes, and tell them thats the sport
Of hood-man-blinde, without all sportivenesse. 
If with a grace I can perform such pranckes,
My hart will give mine agents many thankes.