Chapter VII

Damme you Rogue if thou provoke my wroth
[1]I'le carve thee up, and spit thee, joynt by joynt
There's none that tasted of my fury hath,
But fear and tremble lest I should appoint
A second penance from them, when my brow
Is bent, marke how the rascalls to me bow.

[Sidenote 1: Canes qui multum latrant, raro mordent.]