Michael. I’ll see he shall not live above a week.

Alice. On that condition, Michael, here’s my hand:

None shall have Mosbie’s sister but thyself.

Michael. I understand the painter here hard by 150

150

Hath made report that he and Sue is sure.

Alice. There’s no such matter, Michael; believe it not.

Michael. But he hath sent a dagger sticking in a heart,

With a verse or two stolen from a painted cloth,

The which I hear the wench keeps in her chest.

Well, let her keep it! I shall find a fellow

That can both write and read and make rhyme too.

And if I do—well, I say no more:

I’ll send from London such a taunting letter

As she shall eat the heart he sent with salt 160

160

And fling the dagger at the painter’s head.

Alice. What needs all this? I say that Susan’s thine.

Michael. Why, then I say that I will kill my master,

Or anything that you will have me do.

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