SCAR.  Well, if there be no remedy, we must: 
Though it ill-seemeth, Warman, thou should’st be
So bloody to pursue our lives thus cruelly.

SCATH.  Our mother sav’d thee fro the gallows, Warman: 
His father did prefer thee to thy lord. 
One mother had we both, and both our fathers
To thee and to thy father were kind friends.

FRIAR.  Good fellows, here you see his kindness ends: 
What he was once he doth not now consider. 
You must consider of your many sins: 
This day in death your happiness begins.

SCAR.  If you account it happiness, good Friar,
To bear us company I you desire: 
The more the merrier; we are honest men.

WAR.  Ye were first outlaws, then ye proved thieves,
And now all carelessly ye scoff at death. 
Both of your fathers were good, honest men;
Your mother lives, their widow, in good fame;
But you are scapethrifts, unthrifts, villains, knaves,
And as ye lived by shifts, shall die with shame.

SCATH.  Warman, good words, for all your bitter deeds: 
Ill-speech to wretched men is more than needs.

    Enter RALPH, running.

RAL.  Sir, retire ye, for it hath thus succeeded:  the carnifex or executor, riding on an ill-curtal, hath titubated or stumbled, and is now cripplified, with broken or fractured tibiards, and, sending you tidings of success, saith yourself must be his deputy.

WAR.  Ill-luck! but, sirrah, you shall serve the turn: 
The cords that bind them you shall hang them in.

RAL.  How are you, sir, of me opinionated? not to possess your seneschalship or shrievalty, not to be Earl of Nottingham, will Ralph be nominated by the base, scandalous vociferation of a hangman!

    Enter ROBIN HOOD, like an old man.

ROB.  H. Where is the Shrieve, kind friends, I you beseech?  With his good worship let me have some speech.

FRIAR.  There is the Sheriff, father:  this is he.

ROB.  H. Friar, good alms and many blessings! thank thee. 
Sir, you are welcome to this troublous shire: 
Of this day’s execution did I hear. 
Scarlet and Scathlock murder’d my young son: 
Me have they robb’d and helplessly undone. 
Revenge I would, but I am old and dry: 
Wherefore, sweet master, for saint Charity,
Since they are bound, deliver them to me,
That for my son’s blood I reveng’d may be.

SCAR.  This old man lies:  we ne’er did him such wrong.

ROB.  H. I do not lie:  you wot it too-too well. 
The deed was such as you may shame to tell;
But I with all entreats might not prevail
With your stern, stubborn minds, bent all to blood. 
Shall I have such revenge then, Master Sheriff,
That with my son’s loss may suffice myself?
                       [ROBIN whispers with them.

WAR.  Do, father, what thou wilt, for they must die.