Though I could ’scape shot-free at London

Though I could ’scape shot-free at London,
I fear the shot here. Here’s no scoring but upon
the pate.—Soft, who are you? Sir Walter Blunt.

There’s honor for you. Here’s no vanity.

There’s honor for you. Here’s no vanity. I am as hot
as molten lead, and as heavy too. God keep lead out
of me; I need no more weight than mine own
bowels. I have led my ragamuffins where they are
peppered. There’s not three of my hundred and fifty
left alive, and they are for the town’s end, to beg
during life. But who comes here?