SPEND. Honest serjeants, give me leave to unlade A heart o'ercharg'd with grief; as I have a soul, I'll not break from you. [_They loose him._] Thou strumpet, that wert born to ruin me,[199] My fame and fortune, be subject to my curse, And hear me speak it. May'st thou in thy youth Feel the sharp whip, and in thy beldam age The cart: when thou art grown to be An old upholster unto venery, (A bawd, I mean, to live by feather-beds) May'st thou be driven to sell all thou hast, Unto thy _aqua-vitæ_ bottle (that's the last A bawd will part withal) and live so poor That, being turn'd forth thy house, may'st die at door! SER. Come, sir, ha' you done? SPEND. A little farther give me leave, I pray; I have a charitable prayer to end with. May the French cannibal[200] eat into thy flesh, And pick thy bones so clean, that the report Of thy calamity may draw resort Of all the common sinners in the town, To see thy mangl'd carcass; and that then They may upon't turn honest; bawd, say amen. [_Exit._ SWEAT. Out upon him, wicked villain, how he blasphemes! PURSE. He will be damn'd for turning heretic. TICKLE. Hang him, bankrout rascal, let him talk in prison, The whilst we'll spend his goods; for I did never Hear that men took example by each other. SWEAT. Well, if men did rightly consider't, they should find that whores and bawds are profitable members in a commonwealth; for indeed, though we somewhat impair their bodies, yet we do good to their souls; for I am sure, we still bring them to repentance. PURSE. By Dis, and so we do. SWEAT. Come, come, will you dis before? thou art one of them that I warrant thee will, be hanged, before thou wilt repent. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ WILL RASH, STAINES, _and_ GERALDINE. W. RASH. Well, this love is a troublesome thing. Jupiter, bless me out of his fingers; there's no estate can rest for him: he runs through all countries, will travel through the Isle of Man in a minute; but never is quiet till he comes into Middlesex, and there keeps his Christmas: 'tis his habitation, his mansion, from whence he'll never out till he be fired. GERA. Well, do not tyrannise too much, lest one day he make you know his deity, by sending a shaft out of a sparkling eye shall strike so deep into your heart, that it shall make you fetch your breath short again. W. RASH. And make me cry, _O eyes, no eyes, but two celestial stars!_[201] A pox on't, I'd as lief hear a fellow sing through the nose. How now, wench? _Enter_ GERTRUDE. GERT. Keep your station: you stand as well for the encounter as may be: she is coming on; but as melancholy as a bass-viol in concert.