_Enter_ PHILOMUSUS, STUDIOSO. STUDIOSO. Well, Philomusus, we never 'scaped so fair a scouring: why, yonder are pursuivants out for the French doctor, and a lodging bespoken for him and his man in Newgate. It was a terrible fear that made us cast our hair. PHILOMUSUS. And canst thou sport at our calamities, And count'st us happy to 'scape prisonment? Why, the wide world, that blesseth some with weal,[106] Is to our chained thoughts a darksome jail. STUDIOSO. Nay, prythee, friend, these wonted terms forego; He doubles grief, that comments on a woe. PHILOMUSUS. Why do fond men term it impiety To send a wearisome, sad, grudging ghost Unto his home, his long-long, lasting home? Or let them make our life less grievous be, Or suffer us to end our misery. STUDIOSO. O no; the sentinel his watch must keep, Until his lord do licence him to sleep. PHILOMUSUS. It's time to sleep within our hollow graves, And rest us in the darksome womb of earth: Dead things are grav'd, our[107] bodies are no less Pin'd and forlorn, like ghostly carcases. STUDIOSO. Not long this tap of loathed life can run; Soon cometh death, and then our woe is done: Meantime, good Philomusus, be content; Let's spend our days in hopeful merriment. PHILOMUSUS. Curs'd be our thoughts, whene'er they dream of hope, Bann'd be those haps, that henceforth flatter us, When mischief dogs us still and still for ay, From our first birth until our burying day: In our first gamesome age, our doting sires Carked and cared to have us lettered, Sent us to Cambridge, where our oil is spent; Us our kind college from the teat did tear,[108] And forc'd us walk, before we weaned were. From that time since wandered have we still In the wide world, urg'd by our forced will, Nor ever have we happy fortune tried; Then why should hope with our rent state abide? Nay, let us run unto the baseful cave, Pight in the hollow ribs of craggy cliff, Where dreary owls do shriek the live-long night, Chasing away the birds of cheerful light; Where yawning ghosts do howl in ghastly wise, Where that dull, hollow-eyed, that staring sire, Yclep'd Despair, hath his sad mansion: Him let us find, and by his counsel we Will end our too much irked misery. STUDIOSO. To wail thy haps, argues a dastard mind. PHILOMUSUS. To bear[109] too long, argues an ass's kind. STUDIOSO. Long since the worst chance of the die was cast. PHILOMUSUS. But why should that word _worst_ so long time last? STUDIOSO. Why dost thou now these sleepy plaints commence? PHILOMUSUS. Why should I e'er be dull'd with patience? STUDIOSO. Wise folk do bear with, struggling cannot mend. PHILOMUSUS. Good spirits must with thwarting fates contend. STUDIOSO. Some hope is left our fortunes to redress. PHILOMUSUS. No hope but this--e'er to be comfortless. STUDIOSO. Our life's remainder gentler hearts may find. PHILOMUSUS. The gentlest hearts to us will prove unkind. ACTUS IV., SCAENA 1.