JOHN. Who stirs? which of you both hath strength within his arm To wound his own breast? who's so desperate To damn himself by killing of himself? Are you not both one flesh? THOM. Heart! give me way. SCAR. Be not a bar betwixt us, or by my sword I'll[423] mete thy grave out. JOHN. O, do: for God's sake, do; 'Tis happy death, if I may die, and you Not murder one another. O, do but hearken: When do the sun and moon, born in one frame, Contend, but they breed earthquakes in men's hearts? When any star prodigiously appears, Tells it not fall of kings or fatal years? And then, if brothers fight, what may men think? Sin grows so high, 'tis time the world should sink. SCAR. My heart grows cool again; I wish it not. THOM. Stop not my fury, or by my life I swear. I will reveal the robbery we have done, And take revenge on thee, That hinders me to take revenge on him. JOHN. I yield to that; but ne'er consent to this, I shall then die, as mine own sin affords, Fall by the law, not by my brothers' swords. THOM. Then, by that light that guides me here, I vow, I'll straight to Sir John Harcop, and make known We were the two that robb'd him. JOHN. Prythee, do. THOM. Sin has his shame, and thou shalt have thy due. [_Exit_. JOHN. Thus have I shown the nature of a brother, Though you have proved unnatural to me. He's gone in heat to publish out the theft, Which want and your unkindness forc'd us to: If now I die, that death and public shame Is a corsive to your soul, blot to your name. [_Exit_. SCAR. O, 'tis too true, there's not a thought I think, But must partake thy grief, and drink A relish of thy sorrow and misfortune. With weight of others' tears I am o'erborne, That scarce am Atlas to hold up mine own, And all too good for me. A happy creature In my cradle, and I have made myself The common curse of mankind by my life; Undone my brothers, made them thieves for bread, And begot pretty children to live beggars. O conscience, how thou art stung to think upon't! My brothers unto shame must yield their blood: My babes at others' stirrups beg their food, Or else turn thieves too, and be chok'd for it, Die a dog's death, be perch'd upon a tree; Hang'd betwixt heaven and earth, as fit for neither. The curse of heaven that's due to reprobates Descends upon my brothers and my children, And I am parent to it--ay, I am parent to it. _Enter_ BUTLER. BUT. Where are you, sir? SCAR. Why star'st thou, what's thy haste? BUT. Here's fellows swarm like flies to speak with you. SCAR. What are they? BUT. Snakes, I think, sir; for they come with stings in their mouths, and their tongues are turn'd to teeth too: they claw villainously, they have ate up your honest name and honourable reputation by railing against you: and now they come to devour your possessions. SCAR. In plainer evargy,[424] what are they? speak.