Et vos queis domus est nigrantis regia ditis, Qui regitis rigido stigios moderamine lucos:
Nox coeci regina poli, furialis Erinnis, Diique deaeque omnes, Albanum tollite regem, Tollite flumineis undis rigidaque palude.
Nune me fata vocant, loc condam pectore ferrum.
[Thrusts himself through. Enter Trompart.]
TROMPART.
O, what hath he done? his nose bleeds.
But, oh, I smell a fox:
Look where my master lies. Master, master.
STRUMBO.
Let me alone, I tell thee, for I am dead.
TROMPART.
Yet one word, good master.
STRUMBO.
I will not speak, for I am dead, I tell thee.
TROMPART.
And is my master dead?
O sticks and stones, brickbats and bones, and is my master dead?
O you cockatrices and you bablatrices, that in the woods dwell:
You briers and brambles, you cook's shops and shambles, come howl and yell.
With howling & screeking, with wailing and weeping, come you to lament, O Colliers of Croyden, and rustics of Royden, and fishers of Kent;For Strumbo the cobbler, the fine merry cobbler of Cathnes town:
At this same stour, at this very hour, lies dead on the ground.
O master, thieves, thieves, thieves.
STRUMBO.
