Et vos queis domus est nigrantis regia ditis, Qui regitis rigido stigios moderamine lucos:

Nox coeci regina poli, furialis Erinnis, Diique deaeque omnes, Albanum tollite regem, Tollite flumineis undis rigidaque palude.

Nune me fata vocant, loc condam pectore ferrum.

[Thrusts himself through. Enter Trompart.]

TROMPART.

O, what hath he done? his nose bleeds.

But, oh, I smell a fox:

Look where my master lies. Master, master.

STRUMBO.

Let me alone, I tell thee, for I am dead.

TROMPART.

Yet one word, good master.

STRUMBO.

I will not speak, for I am dead, I tell thee.

TROMPART.

And is my master dead?

O sticks and stones, brickbats and bones, and is my master dead?

O you cockatrices and you bablatrices, that in the woods dwell:

You briers and brambles, you cook's shops and shambles, come howl and yell.

With howling & screeking, with wailing and weeping, come you to lament, O Colliers of Croyden, and rustics of Royden, and fishers of Kent;For Strumbo the cobbler, the fine merry cobbler of Cathnes town:

At this same stour, at this very hour, lies dead on the ground.

O master, thieves, thieves, thieves.

STRUMBO.