Barabas send me three hundred Crownes.
Plaine Barabas: oh that wicked Curtezane!
He was not wont to call me Barabas.
Or else I will confesse: I, there it goes:
But if I get him,
Coupe de Gorge
for that.
He sent a shaggy totter'd staring slave,
That when he speakes, drawes out his grisly beard,
And winds it twice or thrice about his eare;
Whose face has bin a grind-stone for mens swords,
His hands are hacks, some fingers cut quite off;
Who when he speakes, grunts like a hog, and looks
Like one that is imploy'd in Catzerie
And crosbiting, such a Rogue
As is the husband to a hundred whores:
And I by him must send three hundred crownes.
Well, my hope is, he will not stay there still;
And when he comes: oh that he were but here!
