_Sanch._ Neerer yet, That I may spit him down: thou look'st like a man.
_Sanch._ Prethee do but take me, And fling me upon that Puppy.
_Alph._ Do for heavens sake, And see but how I'll hug him.
_Ped._ Faith Gentlemen, this is a needless quarrel.
_Ped._ As a friend Sir, To tell you all this anger is but lost Sir, For _Leonardo_ is from home.
_Sanch._ Where dare he be, but here Sir, When men are wrong'd, and come for satisfactions.
_Ped._ It seems he has done none Sir; for his business Clear of those cares, hath carried him for sometime To _Barcelona_: if he had been guilty, I know he would have stayd, and clear'd all difference Either by free confession, or his sword.
_Alph._ Sure, as we all live, He's run away for ever: _Barcelona_! Why? 'tis the key for _Italy_, from whence He stole first hither.
_Sanch._ And having found his knaveries Too gross to be forgiven, and too open, He has found the same way back again: I believe too The good grass Gentleman, for his own ease, Has taken one o'th' Fillyes: Is not his stuff sold.
_Alph._ I fear his worships shoos too; to escape us, I do not think he has a dish within doors, A louse left of his linnage.
_Alph._ I'll see his house on fire first.
_Ped._ Then be pleased Sir To give better censure.
_Sanch._ I will after him, And search him like conceal'd land, but I'll have him, And though I find him in his shrift, I'll kill him.
_Sanch._ Pray have a care then, A most [especiall] care, indeed a fear, Ye do not anger me.
_Alph._ I will observe ye, And if I light upon him handsomly.
_Sanch._ Kill but a piece of him, leave some _Alphonso_ For your poor Friends.
_Alph._ Shall we first go home, For it may prove a voyage, and dispose Of things there; heaven knows what may follow.
_Sanch._ No, I'll kill him in this shirt I have on: let things Govern themselves, I am master of my honor At this time, and no more; let wife, and land, Lie lay till I return.
_Alph._ I say amen to't: But what care for our monies?
_Sanch._ I will not spend Above three shillings, till his head be here, Four is too great a sum for all his Fortunes. Come take me up instantly.
_Alph._ Farewell to you Sir, And if your friend be in a featherbed, Sow'd up to shrowd his fears, tell him 'tis folly, For no course but his voluntary hanging Can get our pardons. [_Exeunt._