hat when this taske is past,
I have no more to occupie my selfe.
Two hundred markes to give a paltrie stab!
I am impatient till I see the brat.

_Fall_. That must be done with cunning secrecie,
I have devisde to send the boye abroade,
With this excuse, to have him fostered,
In better manners than this place affoords.
My wife, though loath indeed to part with him,
Yet for his good, she will forgoe her joy,
With hope in time to have more firme delights,
Which she expects from young _Pertillos_ life.

2 _Ruff_. Call you him _Pertillo_, faith leave out the _T_.

_Fall_. Why so?

_Ruff_. Because _Perillo_ will remaine,
For he shall surely perish if I live.
What do you call the father of the child?

_Fall_. Why man, he hath no father left alive.

1 _Ruff_.--Yes, such a father, that doth see and know,
How we do plot this little infants woe. [_To the people_.

2 _Ruff_. Why, then his little sonne is much to blame,
That doth not keepe his father company.
When shall we have deliverie of the boy?

_Fall_. To morrow morning by the breake of day:
And you must sweare youle see him safely brought,
Unto the place that I do send him to.

2 _Ruff_. That may we safely, for you meane to send
Him to the wood and there his journey end.[15]
Both soule and limbes shall have a place to rest,
In earth the last, the first in _Abrams_ brest.

_Fall_. Come gentlemen, this night go rest with me,
To morrow end _Pertillos_ tragedie.

[_Exeunt omnes_.

[SCENE III.]

_Enter Merry and Rachell_.

_Mer_. Sister, now all my golde-expected hopes
Of future good is plainely vanished,
And in her stead grim-visadged dispaire,
Hath tane possession of my guiltie heart.
Desire to gaine began this desperate acte;
Now plaine apparance of destruction,
Of soule and body, waights upon my sinne.
Although we hide our sinnes from mortall men,
Whose glasse of knowledge is the face of man,
The eye of heaven beholdes our wickednesse,
And will no doubt revenge the innocent,

_Rach_. Ah, do not so disconsolate your selfe,
Nor adde new streames of sorrow to your griefe,
Which like a spring tide over-swels the bankes,
Least you do make an inundation
And so be borne away with swiftest tides
Of ugly feare and strong dispairing thoughts.
I am your sister; though a silly Maide,
Ile be your true and faithfull comforter.

_Mer_. _Rachell_, I see thy love is infinite,
And sorrow hath so borne my thoughts