I
straight drew my rapier. To _Bolognia_ with a merrie gale wee posted,
where wee lodged our selues in a blinde streete out of the way, and kept
secret manie dayes: but when we perceiued we saild in the hauen, that
the winde was layd, and no alarum made after vs, we boldly came abroad:
& one day hearing of a more desperat murdrer than _Cayn_ that was to
be executed, we followed the multitude, and grutcht not to lend him our
eyes at his last parting.

Who should it bee but one _Cutwolfe_, a wearish dwarfish writhen fac'd
cobler, brother to _Bartoll_ the Italian, that was confederate with
_Esdras_ of _Granado_, and at that time stole away my curtizan, when he
rauisht _Heraclide_.

It is not so naturall for me to epitomize his impietie, as to heare him
in his owne person speake vppon the wheele where he was to suffer.

Prepare your eares and your teares, for neuer till this thrust I anie
tragicall matter vpon you. Strange and wonderfull are Gods iudgements,
heere shine they in their glory. Chast _Heraclide_ thy bloud is laid
vp in heauens treasurie, not one drop of it was lost, but lent out to
vsurie: water powred forth sinkes downe quietly into the earth, but
bloud spilt on the ground sprinkles vp to the firmament. Murder is
wide-mouthd, and will not let God rest till he grant reuenge. Not onely
the bloud of the slaughtred innocent but the soule ascendeth to his
throne, and there cries out & exclaimes for iustice and recompence.
Guiltles soules that liue euerie houre subiect to violence, and with
your despairing feares doo much empaire Gods prouidence: fasten your
eyes on this spectacle that will adde to your faith. Referre all your
oppressions afflictions and iniuries to the euen ballanced eye of the
Almightie, hee it is, that when your patience sleepeth, will bee most
exceeding mindfull of you.

This is but a glose vpon the text: thus _Cutwolfe_ begins his insulting
oration.

Men and people that haue made holy-daie to behold my pained flesh toile
on the wheele. Expect not of me a whining penitent slaue, that shal do
nothing but crie and saie his praiers, and so be crusht in peeces. My
bodie is little, but my minde is as great as a Giants: the soule which
is in mee, is the verie soul of _Iulius Cosar_ by reuersion. My name is
_Cutwolfe_, neither better nor worse by occupation, than a poore cobler
of _Verona_, coblers are men and kings are no more. The occasion of my
comming hether at this present, is to haue a few