Con.  You doe but iest; I know he is within, And I must needes go uppe and speake with him.

Rach.  In deede, good sir, he is in bed a sleepe, And I was loath to trouble him to-night.

Con.  Well, sister, I am sorry for your sake; But for your brother, he is knowne to be A damned villaine and an hipocrite. Rachell, I charge thee in her highnesse name, To go with us to prison presently.

Rach.  To prison, sir? alas, what have I done?

Con.  You know that best, but every one doe know You and your brother murthered Maister Beech, And his poore boy that dwelt at Lambert hill.

Rach.  I murthered? my brother knowes that I, Did not consent to either of their deathes.

Con.  That must be tride; where doth your brother lye?

Rach.  Here in his bed; me thinks he’s not a sleepe.

Con.  Now, Maister Merry, are you in a sweate?
                           [Throwes his night cap away.

Merry sigh.  No verily, I am not in a sweate.

Con.  Some sodaine feare affrights you; whats the cause?

Mer.  Nothing but that you wak’d me unawares.

Con.  In the Queenes name I doe commaund you rise,
And presently to goe along with us.
                                         [Riseth up.

Mer.  With all my hart; what, doe you know the cause?

Con.  We partly doe; when saw you maister Beech?

Mer.  I doe not well remember who you meane.

Con.  Not Beech, the Chaundler upon Lambert hill?

Mer.  I know the man, but saw him not this fortnight.

Con.  I would you had not, for your sisters sake,
For yours, for his, and for his harmlesse boy. 
Be not obdurate in your wickednesse;
Confession drawes repentance after it.

Mer.  Well, maister Constable, I doe confesse,
I was the man that did them both to death: 
As for my sister and my harmlesse man,
I doe protest they both are innocent.

Con.  Your man is fast in hold, and hath confest
The manner how, and where, the deede was done;
Therefore twere vaine to colour anything. 
Bring them away.

Rach.  Ah brother, woe is me!

Mer.  I comfortlesse will helpe to comfort thee.

[Exeunt.

    Enter Trueth.

Weepe, weepe poor soules, & enterchange your woes;
Now, Merry, change thy name and countenance;
Smile not, thou wretched creature, least in scorne
Thou smile to thinke on thy extremities. 
Thy woes were countlesse for thy wicked deedes,
Thy sisters death neede not increase the coumpt,
For thou couldst never number them before.—­
Gentles, helpe out with this suppose, I pray,