[Exeunt.

SCAENA 2.

    Enter Harlem, Leyden & Utrecht Executioners.

Har.  Now hard and sharpe, for a wager, who shall doe it.  Here’s a Sword would doe a man’s head good to be cut of with it; cures all rhumes, all Catharres, megroomes, verteegoes:  presto, be gone!

Ley.  You must not carry it, Harlem:  you are a pretty fellow and lop the lyne of life well, but weake to Baltazar.  Give roome for Leyden:  heer’s an old Cutter, heer’s one has polld more pates and neater then a dicker[204], of your Barbers; they nere need washing after.  Do’s not thy neck itch now to be scratchd a little with this?

Har.  No, in truth do’s it not; but if you’ll try first, yf I doe not whip your dodipoll as clenly of and set it on againe as handsomely as it stands now, that you may blow your nose and pledge me too Cans after—­

Ley.  I was afraid The rogue had don’t indeed.

Utr.  You two imagine now You are excellent workmen and that you can doe wonders, And Utrecht but an Asse.  Let’s feele your Raizors:  Handsawes, meere handsawes!  Do you put your knees to’em too, And take mens necks for timber?  You cutt a feather?  Cut butter when your tooles are hot!  Looke here, puppies; Heer’s the sword that cutt of Pompeis head.

Har.  The head of a Pumpion.[205]

Utr.  Looke on’t but come not neere it:  the very wind on’t Will borrow a leg or an arme.  Heers touch & take, boyes!  And this shall moaw the head of Mounsieur Barnavelt.  Man is but grasse and hay:  I have him here And here I have him.  I would undertake with this Sword To cutt the devills head of, hornes and all, And give it to a Burger for his breakfast.

Ley.  We know you have byn the headman of the parish A great while, Utricht, and ministerd much Justice, Nickt many a worthie gamester; and that you, Harlem, Have shortend many a hanging cause, to your Commendation:  Yet, for all this, who shall trym Monsieur Barnavelt Must run by fortune.  You are proper men both; But why before me that have studdied the true trick on’t Theis twenty yeeres, and run through all the theorems?

Har.  Let’s fling for’t then.

Ley.  I am content.

Utr.  And I.

Har.  Sit round, then:  here are dyce, and ile begin to ye.  Have at your head, Sir John! dewce ace[206]; a doggs-head![207] The devill turnd this ace up.  Farwell, velvet gowne!  Thou hast mist the luckiest hand to scratch thy Coxcomb.

Ley.  No, no, Sir.  Now for my part.  Heigh! fight aloft for the head, boyes.  How?  Cater-trey[208]?

Utr.  Will you take a sleeve for your share, Sir?

Ley.  ’Tis but a desperat cast, and so hee’l find it, If it fall to me.  Cast for your game.