tortion, murther, or the death
Of friend or foe, to gaine an Empery.
I cannot glut my blood-delighted eye
With mangled bodies which do gaspe and grone,
Readie to passe to faire Elizium,
Nor bath my greedie handes in reeking blood
Of fathers by their children murthered:
When all men else do weepe, lament and waile,
The sad exploites of fearefull tragedies,
It glads me so, that it delightes my heart,
To ad new tormentes to their bleeding smartes.

_Enter Avarice_.

But here comes _Avarice_, as if he sought,
Some busie worke for his pernicious thought:
Whether so fast, all-griping _Avarice_?

_Ava_. Why, what carst thou? I seeke for one I misse.

_Ho_. I may supplie the man you wish to have.

_Ava_. Thou seemes to be a bold audatious knave;
I doe not like intruding companie,
That seeke to undermine my secrecie.

_Ho_. Mistrust me not; I am thy faithfull friend.

_Ava_. Many say so, that prove false in the end.

_Ho_. But turne about and thou wilt know my face.

_Ava_. It may be so, and know thy want of grace.
What! _Homicide_? thou art the man I seeke:
I reconcile me thus upon thy cheeke. [_Kisse, imbrace_.
Hadst thou nam'd blood and damn'd iniquitie,
I had forborne to bight so bitterlie.

_Hom_. Knowst thou a hart wide open to receive,
A plot of horred desolation?
Tell me of this, thou art my cheefest good,
And I will quaffe thy health in bowles of blood.

_Ava_. I know two men, that seem two innocents,
Whose lookes, surveied with iuditiall eyes,
Would seeme to beare the markes of honestie;
But snakes finde harbour mongst the fairest flowers,
Then never credit outward semblaunces.

_Enter[4] Trueth_.

I know their harts relentlesse, mercilesse,
And will performe through hope of benefit:
More dreadfull things then can be thought upon.

_Hom_. If gaine will draw, I prethy then allure
Their hungrie harts with hope of recompence,
But tye dispaire unto those mooving hopes,
Unleast a deed of murther farther it,
Then blood on blood, shall overtake them all,
And we will make a bloodie feastivall.

_Cove_. The plots are laide, the keyes of golden coine,
Hath op'd the secret closets of their harts.
Inter [_sic_], insult, make captive at thy will,
Themselves, and friends, with deedes of damned ill:
Yonder is _Truth_, she commeth to bewaile,
The times and parties that we worke upon.

_Hom_. Why, let her weepe, lament and morne for me,
We are right bred of damn'd iniquitie,
And will go make