But what is smear'd and shameful: I must kill him, Necessity compels me.

San. But think better.

Petr. There's no other cure left; yet, witness with me,

All, that is fair in man, all, that is noble,

I am not greedy of his life I seek for,

Nor thirst to shed man's blood; and 'would 'twere possible,

I wish it from my soul,

My sword should only kill his crimes: no, 'tis Honour-honour, my noble friends, that idol, honour, That all the world now worships, not Petruchio, Must do this justice.

Ant. Let it once be done,

And 'tis no matter, whether you, or honour,
Or both, be accessary.

Bapt. Do you weigh, Petruchio,

The value of the person, power, and greatness,
And what this spark may kindle?
Petr. To perform it,

So much I am tied to reputation,

And credit of my house, let it raise wild-fires,
And storms, that toss me into everlasting ruin,
Yet, I must through; if you dare side me.
Ant. Dare!

Say we were all sure to die in this venture,
As I am confident against it! is there any
Amongst us of so fat a sense, so pamper'd,
Would chuse luxuriously to lie a-bed,
And purge away his spirit? send his soul out
In sugar sops, and syrups? give me dying,
As dying ought to be, upon my enemy;
Let them be all the world, and bring along
Cain's envy with them-I will on.

San. We'll follow.

Petr. You're friends, indeed!

B

Here is none will fly from you;

Do it in what design you please, we'll back you.
Petr. That's spoken heartily.

Ant. And he, that flinches,
May he die, lousy, in a ditch!

San. Is the cause so mortal? nothing but his life?
Petr. Believe me,

A less offence has been the desolation

Of a whole name.

San. No other way to purge

it?

Petr. There is, but never to be hoped for.
Bapt. Think an hour more,

And if then you find no safer road to guide you,
We'll set our rest too.

Ant. Mine's up already,

And hang him, for my part, goes less than life.

Enter DON JOHN.

[Exeunt.

John. The civil order of this city, Naples,
Makes it beloved and honour'd of all travellers,
As a most safe retirement in all troubles;
Beside the wholesome seat, and noble temper
Of those minds that inhabit it, safely wise,
But I see
And to all strangers courteous.
My admiration has drawn night upon me,
And longer to expect my friend, may pull me
Into suspicion of too late a stirrer,

Which all good governments are jealous of.
I'll home, and think at liberty: yet certain,
'Tis not so far night as I thought; for see,
A fair house yet stands open, yet all about it.
Are close, and no lights stirring: there may be foul
play:

I'll venture to look in. If there be knaves,
I may do a good office.

Nurse. [Within.] Signior!

John. What? how is this?

Nurse. [Within.] Signior Fabritio!

John. This is a woman's tongue; here may be good done.

Nurse. [Within.] Who's there? Fabritio?
John. Ay.

Nurse. [Within.] Where are you?

John. Here.

Nurse. [Within.] O come, for Heaven's sake!
John. I must see what this means.

Enter NURSE, with a Child.

Nurse. I have stay'd this long hour for

no noise;

you,

make

For things are in strange trouble-Here-be secret, 'Tis worth your care: begone now; more eyes watch

[Exit, shutting the Door.

John. She's gone, and I am loaden-Fortune for

me!

It weighs well, and it feels well; it may chance
To be some pack of worth: by th' mass, 'tis heavy!
If it be coin or jewels, it is worth welcome.
I'll ne'er refuse a fortune-I am confident
'Tis of no common price. Now to my lodging:
If it be right, I'll bless this night.

Exit.

SCENE III,

Another Street.

Enter DUKE, GUZMAN, PEDRO, and PEREZ.

Duke. Welcome to town. Are ye

Guz. To point, sir.

Duke. Where are the horses?

Pedro. Where they were appointed.

all fit?

Duke. Be private all, and whatsoever fortune Offer itself, let us stand sure.

Perez. Fear not,

Ere you shall be endanger'd, or deluded,

We'll make a black night on't.

Duke. No more, I know it;

You know your quarters.

Guz. Will you go alone, sir?

Duke. Ye shall not be far from me, the least noise

Shall bring you to my rescue,

Pedro. We are counsell❜d.

[Exeunt.

Enter DON JOHN, with a Child, crying.

John. Was ever man so paid for being curious;

Ever so bobb'd for searching out adventures,

As I am! Did the devil lead me? Must I needs be

peeping

Into men's houses, where I had no business,

And make myself a mischief?

What have I got by this now?

A piece of pap and caudle-work—a child,

This comes of peeping!

What a figure do I make now !-good white bread,

་་

Let's have no bawling wi' ye; 'sdeath, have I Known wenches thus long, all the ways of wenches, Their snares and subtleties,

And am I now bumfiddled with a bastard?

Well, Don John,

You'll be wiser one day, when you have paid dearly
For a collection of these butter prints.

'Twould not grieve me to keep this gingerbread,
Were it of my own baking; but to beggar
Myself in caudles, nurses, coral, bells and babies,
For other men's iniquities!

What shall I do with it now?

Should I be caught here dandling this pap-spoon, I shall be sung in ballads;

No eyes are near-I'll drop it,

For the next curious coxcomb-how it smiles upon

me!

Ha! you

little sugar-sop

!-'tis a sweet baby;

'Twere barb'rous to leave it-ten to one would kill

it;

Worse sin than his who got it-Well, I'll take it,
And keep it as they keep death's head, in rings,
To cry memento to me-no more peeping!
Now all the danger is to qualify

The good old gentlewoman, at whose house we lodge;
For she will fall upon me with a catechism
Of four hours long: Come, good wonder,
Let you and I be jogging; your starved treble

Will waken the rude watch else. All that be
Curious night-walkers, may they find my fee! [Exit.