Both of your fathers were good, honest men;
Your mother lives, their widow, in good fame;
But you are scapethrifts, unthrifts, villains, knaves,
And as ye lived by shifts, shall die with shame.
SCATH. Warman, good words, for all your bitter deeds:
Ill-speech to wretched men is more than needs.
_Enter_ RALPH, _running_.
RAL. Sir, retire ye, for it hath thus succeeded: the carnifex or
executor, riding on an ill-curtal, hath titubated or stumbled, and is
now cripplified, with broken or fractured tibiards, and, sending you
tidings of success, saith yourself must be his deputy.
WAR. Ill-luck! but, sirrah, you shall serve the turn:
The cords that bind them you shall hang them in.
RAL. How are you, sir, of me opinionated? not to possess your
seneschalship or shrievalty, not to be Earl of Nottingham, will
Ralph be nominated by the base, scandalous vociferation of a
hangman!
_Enter_ ROBIN HOOD, _like an old man_.
ROB. H. Where is the Shrieve, kind friends, I you beseech?
With his good worship let me have some speech.
FRIAR. There is the Sheriff, father: this is he.
ROB. H. Friar, good alms and many blessings! thank thee.
Sir, you are welcome to this troublous shire:
Of this day's execution did I hear.
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