SCENE II

_Outside Franklin’s house._

_Here enters Will, Greene, and Shakebag._

_Shakebag._ Black night hath hid the pleasures of the day, And sheeting darkness overhangs the earth, And with the black fold of her cloudy robe Obscures us from the eyesight of the world, In which sweet silence such as we triumph. The lazy minutes linger on their time, As loth to give due audit to the hour, Till in the watch our purpose be complete And Arden sent to everlasting night. Greene, get you gone, and linger here about, 10 And at some hour hence come to us again, Where we will give you instance of his death.

_Greene._ Speed to my wish, whose will so e’er says no; And so I’ll leave you for an hour or two.

[_Exit Greene._

_Will._ I tell thee, Shakebag, would this thing were done: I am so heavy that I can scarce go; This drowsiness in me bodes little good.

_Shakebag._ How now, Will? become a precisian? Nay, then let’s go sleep, when bugs and fears Shall kill our courages with their fancy’s work. 20

_Will._ Why, Shakebag, thou mistakes me much, And wrongs me too in telling me of fear. Were’t not a serious thing we go about, It should be slipt till I had fought with thee, To let thee know I am no coward, I. I tell thee, Shakebag, thou abusest me.

_Shakebag._ Why, thy speech bewrayed an inly kind of fear, And savoured of a weak relenting spirit. Go forward now in that we have begun, And afterwards attempt me when thou darest. 30

_Will._ And if I do not, heaven cut me off! But let that pass, and show me to this house, Where thou shalt see I’ll do as much as Shakebag.

_Shakebag._ This is the door; but soft, methinks ’tis shut. The villain Michael hath deceived us.

_Will._ Soft, let me see, Shakebag; ’tis shut indeed. Knock with thy sword, perhaps the slave will hear.

_Shakebag._ It will not be; the white-livered peasant Is gone to bed, and laughs us both to scorn.

_Will._ And he shall buy his merriment as dear 40 As ever coistril bought so little sport: Ne’er let this sword assist me when I need, But rust and canker after I have sworn, If I, the next time that I meet the hind, Lop not away his leg, his arm, or both.

_Shakebag._ And let me never draw a sword again, Nor prosper in the twilight, cockshut light, When I would fleece the wealthy passenger, But lie and languish in a loathsome den, Hated and spit at by the goers-by, 50 And in that death may die unpitied, If I, the next time that I meet the slave, Cut not the nose from off the coward’s face And trample on it for this villainy.

_Will._ Come, let’s go seek out Greene; I know he’ll swear.

_Shakebag._ He were a villain, an he would not swear. ’Twould make a peasant swear among his boys, That ne’er durst say before but ‘yea’ and ‘no,’ To be thus flouted of a coistril.

_Will._ Shakebag, let’s seek out Greene, and in the morning 60 At the alehouse butting Arden’s house Watch the out-coming of that prick-eared cur, And then let me alone to handle him. [_Exeunt._

III. ii. 47. A _cockshut_ was a large net used to catch woodcocks after sunset. Cf. ‘Cockshut time.’--_Richard III._, V. iii. 70.