In honour shall my promise be fulfilled.

This I welcome, good Putresco. Listen.
I'm told there is a plot against our liege
Wherein is sought a threefold benison
(For doubtful purpose) for the seamen, wootly,
And maybe at the cost o'th'monarch's head!

This have I also heard, good merchant. But
'Tis known of by so few that, by my sooth,
'Twould do no harm to bruit it far abroad
In hope to stop it. But of my own plan
I would say as yet but little. Wait!
I hear a muffled footstep. Let us hide!

I know not who the order gave that I
These tender maids should lead, who wail and cry
Yet since it has been given, I'll obey,
To gain a little more hard-earnèd pay.
So maids, be not unkind, do not chastise,
For I am but another in disguise!
But whoso yet awhile I mayn't disclose,
Or I'll have but eightyfold my woes.
Come now, we must our weary trek pursue
To fill the purpose now, and meet the due.

O, cruel chains! See how our sister faints!
Why are we thus condemned – I pray you, squeak!

I cannot, Usq', I cannot stand again,
My tibia is fractured, and I bleed
From every sanguinary vein I have,
My lymph evaporates, my brain expires,
And now I cannot breathe –

                                      O help ye gods

For godsake, Trolleyman, fetch water quickly!

My sweet and gentle maids, I'll sate your thirst
With nectar sweet, from yonder barrel burst.
Whate'er be found within I'll give you straight
To soothe the wound in beauteous Colquhoun's pate.
I know you'll take my kindness not amiss
In giving you ... But marry, now, what's this?

Alas, the driver of the bus is here
Abune the ground; fall'n prey, mayhap, to beer
I know not why this man should lie here so
I'll try and rouse the wight: Good Putresc, ho!

Poke not my ribs, and leave my kidneys whole,
Nor dice betimes my liver for a stew,
I'll not be tampered with, I say. Begone!

But sir, this maid stands ready to expire
And needs some fluid to extinct the fire
Which now is kindled in her shattered thigh
Which must be bathed an she not sadly die.
And so ...

                Good Merchant, come! Thou know'st first aid.

Oh, sir, if any man the science have
Whereby our sister may be saved, then let him
Show his face and skilful hand.

Merchant! Good Merchant! He's behind this barrel hid.

All right, all right, I'll not withhold my skill

Now then, what have we here, a rancid leg?

Methinks a septic closet of some evil
Humour, infected with lymphatic nodes.
A sickness dire and strange – and hard to cure!
We'll amputate it straight – but where's my axe?

Good Merchant, come. We have no cause for staying
And with each hour we wait our plans do rot.
Bind we this wight – he shall pursue us not.