This leafe is full of tortur'd Christians: Some pauncht, some starv'd, some eyes and braines bor'd out, Some whipt to death, some torne by Lyons.

I, I, tis I, Whose soule is torne in peeces till I send This Harlot home.

Let me then be torne Into a thousand pieces.

Sol, my soule; re, is all rent and torne like a raggamuffin; me, mend it, good Captaine; fa, fa,whats fa, Captaine? Bal.

Ile make my way; And therefore quickly leave me, or Ile force you; And having first torne off your flaunting feathers, Ile tramble on 'em; and if that cannot teach you To quit my house, Ile kick ye out of my gates; You gawdie glow-wormes carrying seeming fire, Yet have no heat within ye. Cow.

Her shroudes are torne to pieces & her tacklings to raggs.

Nay, what can you say for him, hath he not Broacht his owne wives (a chast wives) breast and torne With Scithian hands his Mothers bowels up?