TRIN. While my dear Ronca Clipp'd me,[322] my purse shook dangerously; yet both his arms And hands embrac'd my neck. Here's none behind me. How can this be? RON. Most dear Antonio, Was not your passage dangerous from Barbary? We had great winds and tempests; and, I fear me, You felt the force at sea. TRIN. Yes, dearest Ronca. How's this? I see his hands, and yet my purse is gone! RON. Signior Antonio, I see your mind's much troubl'd About affairs of worth; I take my leave, And kiss your hands of liberality. TRIN. And kiss my hands of liberality! I gave him nothing. O, my purse, my purse! Dear Master Ronca. RON. What's your pleasure, sir? TRIN. Show me your hand. RON. Here 'tis. TRIN. But where's th' other? RON. Why, here. TRIN. But I mean, where's your other hand? RON. Think you me the giant with a hundred hands? TRIN. Give me your right. RON. My right? TRIN. Your left. RON. My left? TRIN. Now both. RON. There's both, my dear Antonio. Keep yourself dark; eat broth. Your fearful passage And want of natural rest hath made you frantic. [_Exit._ TRIN. Villain, rogue, cutpurse, thief! [_Aside._] Dear Ronca, stay. He's gone-- I' th' devil's name, how could this fellow do it? I felt his hands fast lock'd about my neck; And still he spoke. It could not be his mouth: For that was full of dear Antonio. My life! he stole't with his feet. Such a trick more Will work worse with me than a looking-glass: To lose five pounds in court'sy, and the rest In salutation! _Re-enter_ RONCA, _disguised_. RON. Signior Antonio, What ails you? TRIN. Ronca, a rogue, a cutpurse, Hath robb'd me of five twenty-shilling pieces. RON. What kind of man was he--something like me? TRIN. H' had such a thievish countenance as your own, But that he wore a black patch o'er his eye. RON. Met you with Ronca? 'Tis the cunning'st nimmer Of the whole company of Cut-purse Hall: I am sorry I was not here to warn you of him. [_Exit._ SCENE VIII. FURBO, BEVILONA, TRINCALO. BEV. Furbo, no more, unless thy words were charms Of power to revive him. Antonio's dead; He's dead, and in his death hath buried All my delights: my ears are deaf to music That sounds of pleasure. Sing, then, the dolfull'st notes That e'er were set by melancholy: O Antonio! FURBO _sings this song_. _Flow, streams of liquid salt from my sad eyes, To celebrate his mournful exequies. Antonio's dead; he's dead, and I remain To draw my poor life in continual pain, Till it have paid to his sad memory Duty of love: O, then most willingly Drown'd with my tears, as he with waves, I die._