Archer

Old poltron, damn your church’s absolution! What ’vaileth that to me at such a time! Since all the holy waves of Christendom, With thy long hypocritical prayers to boot, Won’t purchase my salvation. During peace You fatten on a country; may not we In time of war pick up some prize-money, Seeing that killing in our trade’s no murder! Give me substantial stuff, or die, old rogue!

[The Friar drops a Purse, and appears to swoon; the Archer passes on. The Friar makes his escape as a Storming Party comes up.