Sir Peter Harpdon's End
Soft music, and good singing; for this day
Is my high day of triumph; is it not,
Ah! on your own blood,
Own name, you heap this foul disgrace? you dare,
With hands and fame thus sullied, to go back
And take the Lady Alice—
Say her name
Again, and you are dead, slain here by me.
Why should I talk with you, I'm master here,
And do not want your schooling; is it not
My mercy that you are not dangling dead
There in the gateway with a broken neck?
Such mercy! why not kill me then outright?
To die is nothing; but to live that all
May point their fingers! yea, I'd rather die.
Why, will it make you any uglier man
To lose your ears? they're much too big for you,
You ugly Judas!
Hold, John! [To Lambert.
That's your choice,
To die, mind! Then you shall die—Lambert mine,
I thank you now for choosing this so well,
It saves me much perplexity and doubt;