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A pair of thread-bare velvet hose, seam rent,

A worsted stocking rent above the shoe,

A livery cloak, but all the lace was off ;

'Twas bad, but yet it served to hide the plate.

Will. Sirrah Shakebag, canst thou remember since we

trolled the bowl at Sittingburgh, where I broke the

tapster's head of the Lion with a cudgel-stick ?

Shakebag. Ay, very well, Will.

Will. Why, it was with the money that the plate was

sold for. Sirrah Bradshaw, what wilt thou give him

that can tell thee who sold thy plate ?

Bradshaw. Who, I pray thee, good Will ?

Will. Why_, 'twas one Jack Fitten. He's now in New-

gate for stealing a horse, and shall be arraigned the

next 'size.

Bradshaw. Wliy, then let Lord Cheiny seek Jack Fitten forth,

For I'll back and tell him who robbed him of his plate.

This cheers my heart ; Master Greene, I'll leave you,

For I must to the Isle of Sheppy with speed.

Greene. Before you go, let me intreat you

To carry this letter to Mistress Arden of Feversham

And humbly recommend me to herself.

Bradshaw. That will I, Master Greene, and so farewell. 80

Here, Will, there 's a crown for thy good news.

Exit Bradshaw.

Will. Farewell, Bradshaw ; I'll drink no water for thy

sake whilst this lasts. — Now, gentleman, shall we

have your company to London ?

Greene. Nay, stay, sirs :

A little more I needs must use your help.

And in a matter of great consequence.

Wherein if you'll be secret and profound,

I'll give you twenty angels for your pains.

Will. How? twenty angels? give my fellow George

Shakebag and me twenty angels? And if thou 'It

have thy own father slain, that thou may'st inherit

his land, we'll kill him.

Shakebag. Ay, thy mother, thy sister, thy brother, or all thy kin.

Greene. Well, this it is : Arden of Feversham

Hath highly wronged me about the Abbey land,

That no revenge but death will serve the turn.

Will you two kill him? here's the angels down,

And I will lay the platform of his death. loo

Will. Plat me no platforms ; give me the money, and

I'll stab him as he stands pissing against a wall, but

I'll kill him.

Shakebag. Where is he ?

Greene. He is now at London, in Aldersgate Street.

Shakebag. He 's dead as if he had been condemned by

an Act of Parliament, if once Black Will and I swear his death.

Greene. Here is ten pound, and when he is dead,

Ye shall have twenty more.

Will. My fingers itches to be at the peasant. Ah, that

I might be set a work thus through the year, and

that murder would grow to an occupation, that a

man might follow without danger of law : — zounds, I

warrant I should be warden of the company I Come,

let us be going, and we 'U bait at Rochester, where

I'll give thee a gallon of sack to handsel the match withal.

Exeut

SCENE II

London. A Street near St. Paul's.

Enter Michael.

Michael. I have gotten such a letter as will touch the

painter : And thus it is :

Here enters Arden and Franklin and hears Michael

read this letter.

* My duty remembered, Mistress Susan, hoping in God

you be in good health, as I Michael was at the

making hereof. This is to certify you that as the

turtle true, when she hath lost her mate, sitteth

alone, so I, mourning for your absence, do walk

up and down Paul's till one day I fell asleep and

lost my master's pantofles. Ah, Mistress Susan,

abolish that paltry painter, cut him off by the

shins with a frowning look of your crabbed counten-

ance, and think upon Michael, who, drunk with

the dregs of your favour, will cleave as fast to your

love as a plaster of pitch to a galled horse-back.

Thus hoping you will let my passions penetrate, or

rather impetrate mercy of your meek hands, I end.

' Yours, Michael, or else not Michael.'

Arden. Why, you paltry knave,

Stand you here loitering, knowing my affairs,

What haste my business craves to send to Kent ?

Franklin. Faith, friend Michael, this is very ill,

Knowing your master hath no more but you,

And do ye slack his business for your own ?

Arden. Where is the letter, sirrah? let