Volume Ix Part 114 (1/2)

SIS. Undone, undone!

BUT. Why, mistress, how is't? how is't?

SIS. My husband has forsook me.

BUT. O perjury!

SIS. Has ta'en my jewels and my bracelets from me.

THOM. Vengeance, I played the thief for the money that bought 'em.

SIS. Left me distressed, and thrust me forth o' doors.

THOM. d.a.m.nation on him! I will hear no more.

But for his wrong revenge me on my brother, Degenerate, and was the curse of all, He spent our portion, and I'll see his fall.

JOHN. O, but, brother--

THOM. Persuade me not.

All hopes are s.h.i.+pwreck'd, misery comes on, The comfort we did look from him is frustrate, All means, all maintenance, but grief is gone; And all shall end by his destruction. [_Exit_.

JOHN. I'll follow, and prevent what in this heat may happen: His want makes sharp his sword; too great's the ill, If that one brother should another kill. [_Exit_.

BUT. And what will you do, mistress?

SIS. I'll sit me down, sigh loud instead of words, And wound myself with grief as they with swords.

And for the sustenance that I should eat, I'll feed on grief, 'tis woe's best-relish'd meat.

BUT. Good heart, I pity you, You shall not be so cruel to yourself, I have the poor serving-man's allowance: Twelve pence a day, to buy me sustenance; One meal a day I'll eat, the t'other fast, To give your wants relief. And, mistress, Be this some comfort to your miseries, I'll have thin cheeks, ere you shall have wet eyes.

[_Exeunt_.

_Enter_ SCARBOROW.

SCAR. What is a prodigal? Faith, like a brush, That wears himself to furbish[418] others' clothes, And, having worn his heart even to the stump, He's thrown away like a deformed lump.

O, such am I: I have spent all the wealth My ancestors did purchase, made others brave In shape and riches, and myself a knave.

For though my wealth rais'd some to paint their door, 'Tis shut against me saying I am but poor: Nay, even the greatest arm, whose hand hath grac'd My presence to the eye of majesty, shrinks back, His fingers clutch, and like to lead, They are heavy to raise up my state, being dead.

By which I find spendthrifts (and such am I) Like strumpets flourish, but are foul within, And they (like snakes) know when to cast their skin.

_Enter_ THOMAS SCARBOROW.

THOM. Turn, draw, and die; I come to kill thee.

SCAR. What's he that speaks like sickness? O, is't you?

Sleep still, you cannot move me: fare you well.

THOM. Think not my fury slakes so, or my blood Can cool itself to temper by refusal: Turn, or thou diest.

SCAR. Away.