A DIALOGUE OR▪ A Dispute betweene the late Hangman and Death.
Hangm
n.
What, is my Glasse run?
Death.
Yes, Richard Brandon.
Hangman.
HOw now, sterne Land-lord, must I out of doore?
I pray you, Sir, what am I on your score?
I cannot at this present call to mind,
That I with you am any thing behind.
Death.
Yes,
Richard Brandon, you shall shortly know,
There's nothing paid for you, but you still owe
The totall summe, and I am come to crave it;
Provide your selfe, for I intend to have it.
Hangman.
Stay, Death, thou'it force me stand upon my guard;
Me thinkes this is a very slight reward,
Let's talke a while, I value not thy Dart,
For, next thy selfe, I can best act thy part.
Death.
Lay downe thy Ax, and cast thy Ropes away,
'Tis I command, 'tis thou that must obay;
Thy Part is play'd and thou go'st off the Stage
The bloudiest Actor in this present Age.
Hangman.
But, Death, thou know'st, that I for many yeares,
As by old
Tiburnes Records it appeares,
Have monthly payd my Taxes unto thee,
Ty'd up in twisted Hemp, for more securitie;
And now of late I thinke thou put'st me to't,
When none but
Brandon could be found to do't:
I gave the Blow caus'd thousand hearts to ake,
Nay more then that, it made three Kingdomes quake:
Yet in obedience to thy pow'rfull call,
Downe went that Cedar, with some Shrubs, and all
To satisfie thy ne'r-contented Lust.
Now, for reward, thou tell'st me that I must
Lay down my tooles, and with thee pack from hence;
Grim Sir, you give a fearfull recompence.
Death.
Brandon no more, make haste,
I cannot stay,
Thou know'st thy selfe how ill
I brooke delay:
Though thou hadst sent ten thousand to the grave,
What's that to me, 'tis thee
I now must have:
'Tis not the King, nor any of his Peeres
Cut off by thee, can adde unto thy yeares;
Come, perfect thy Accompts, make right thy Score,
Old
Caron stayes, perhaps hee'l set thee ore.
Hangman.
Then
I must goe, which many going sent;
Death, thou didst make me but thy instrument,
To execute, and
[...]un the hazard to;
Of all thou didst ingage me for to doe,
In bloud to thee, how oft did
I carouse,
Being chiefe Master of thy Slaughter-house?
For those the Plague did spare, if once
I catcht'um,
With Ax or Rope
I quickly had dispatcht'um.
Yet now, at last, of life thou wilt bereave me,
And as thou find'st me, so thou mean'st to leave me:
But those black staines
I in thy Service got,
Will still remaine, though
I consume and rot.
Strike home▪ all-conqu'ring Death,
I Brandon yield,
Thou wilt,
I see, be Master of the Field.
EPITAPH.
WHo, doe you thinke, lyes buried here?
One that did help to make Hemp deare,
The poorest Subject did abhorre him,
And yet his
King did kneele before him;
He would his Master not betroy,
Yet he his Master did destroy,
And yet no
Judas; in Records 'tis found,
Judas had thirty pence, he thirty pound.
FINIS.