ROBERT

Sir, my mother prays— She is your wife, my mother, Sir. Nothing, but that you wrong her, o my conscience. O were you not my father, I would let This passion out of your impostumed heart— Why should not I forget, that your blood moves In any veins of mine; when you forgo The reason of a father, husband, man? And stick degeneration on your name? If I sail ill, know your example steered My voyage and my vessel. Father's are more Then private men: their lives are the set copies. Their children write by; and should there give Their imitation patterns how to live. Hell's a sad place, they say:—O, I'll dare never To follow my own father leading thither. Looseness Sir? O hell! She is my mother; pray you, use her well. I cannot Sir. I must obey. Thou comest upon thy death, infectious issue of the world's plague; if thy blood stained foot enter these doors. Our parents are from home. Till their return, I'll keep possession. Or loose it with my life. Right noble son of so professed a foe, Heaven be as kind to you, as you to our woe. Hold. Here take your kindness back: Though we are poor, My sister was not bred to be a whore. Forbear to touch her. Gout, dropsy, lameness, rotten legs can hasten T'vndoe the poor. Usurers that fit Bound to their chairs with charms, & cannot move But by their porters, can to ill bestir them. He needs make haste, that is at hell before them. Fit still you lethargy: you had better drop— You are my stern Sir, at your pleasure guide This tempest-beaten vessel. Sir, be not so incensed: resume your son Into your former love, and I resign All right, that his free promise hath made mine. COme, sister to my sorrows, and my self. They say, society in woes does lighten Our pressures; but I find the contrary. My woes are heavier by thy company My grief for thy distress, doubles mine own. I should be far less wretched, if alone. Little once thought thy mother, that thy fate Should stoop to service to relieve thy state: We are not tried, but in our misery. He is a cunning Coachman that can turn Well in a narrow room. To manage plenty In a right form, commends the state, not person. He's blessed, that to be rich can give consent With honesty, or rest poor with content. I wonder, Benjamin does not visit us. His last relief is done, if that spring dry, We faint for succour, and must fainting die. See, here comes Bromloy, once our father's Steward: Sure, he'll support us. Sister, cry his kindness: thy speech is more pathetical. The Statute, Judas? with are no Beggars, though We tried thy courtesy. Cursed be thy fate, Thou from our father gottest thy whole estate. Yet grudgest us some fragments. Hence, out Dog: If thou stayest miscreant— Do thy worst, devil. And insatiate worm strike deep in to thy conscience, sile thy heart strings with rubbing flets: And turn thy derogated name, On foggy blastings of eternal shame. Ingratitude is gone; and in his room, Extortion and a fiend is hith or come. Go thou accursed Cain: in misery, When thou beggest mercy, be't as far from thee. Heaven be as deaf to thee, when thy soul breath Shall beg some respite at thy violent death. This fellow sure will succour us. Now I remember, when I went to school, I read of one Vespasian a good Emperor, That told his Courtiers if a day out-slipt him, Wherein he did nor good, that day was lost. The next he would redeem't with double cost. Ill coloured sin, how shameful dost thou look, In them that plead thy warrant from their book! Thus much: a broken head. Hence, skie-consulting Gypsy: men commit Sins dark as night, and blame the stars for it. Another passenger—O this is Sager. His wife was once a servant to our mother. Alas, when these built from our ruinous woe Relieve us not, what should this poor man do. With joust hands. I'm prouder of thy love, then of thy lands. By your leave, Mistress Sorrow. I have letters from Mr. Been. Gripe. Sure I should know that face and language too. A chill disquiet troubles my soft peace, And runs Like a cold fever through my blood. I'm very sick of somewhat. O it's then Error, the sickness in all minds of men. But that I know her absence gives her dead. In would swear it was my mother. alas vain thoughts, How you would flatter me! Zlid she calls me Son. Yes: this testify. I beg your blessing on my humbled knee. Lives my Father? Vm'h my doubts Wrap me in further maze. My father dead? My mother living in his enemies house? Let's study. Oft I have herd my father moan, That this same woman's lust had him undone. This gives strong faith. Why should she else live here, But to some such vile end? By heaven 'tis clear. O that this sap, which my life feeds upon, Did not confess a derivation From that corrupted trunk! Well, I will force Nature run back with a preposterous course. I'll fashion a forgetful lunacy, That ere I was her soon. But on my soul, Not touch her with least hurt.—Woman come hither. Storm? No, 'tis thunder. Can you read this? Come, come, forget These filial rights, and Nature's attributes. Prepare your self to— I'm deafer then and Usurer to your mones. I must, Like Nero, see the place I bred in. Be brief in answer: did you never wrong my father's nuptial bed. Take heed. Clog not that breast with more sin, that must bleed. Speak truth and save your soul. Lie you not here to satiate his lust, That robbed my father? speak, or you are but dust. Now on thy soul thou liest. Confess, be plain, or without pause thou diest. Will you feel it, Sir? How now? my mother guarded? with two rogues? Sword, thou didst feign to kill her—but—Sirrah—you—deliver me this woman, or I'll make thy yellow starched face serve me for a cutwork band. Sirrah, you see I stand charged already. Will you have me run? No matter for thy prayers; dispatch it quickly then. Yes. Dear mother, pardon; be secure— Good leach, stand further off: your breath's too violent Mass, 'tis true. How forgetfully are we cheated? You do lie! 'Twas a mischance Sir. A miracle: And Usurer drunk at's own cost. Come down, Raven. Blind, credulous fool! He that shall trust at needs Such nice and tottering coxcombs, shall thus speed. Should his sick father send him for some drug, He would turn back at such imagined bugs. And by his friend? Fate, whither will thy projects tend! My father?