Y. LORD W. Why, Peter, wilt not answer me? P. SER. O, my Lord above, stand still; I'm fallen down at least thirty fathom deep. If you stand not still till I recover, and have lighted a candle, you're but a dead man. HOG. I am robb'd, I am undone, I am deluded! Who's in my chamber? Y. LORD W. 'Tis I, the lord your son, that shall be; upon my honour, I came not to rob you. HOG. I shall run mad! I shall run mad! Y. LORD W. Why, then, 'tis my fortune to be terrified with madmen. _Enter_ PETER SERVITUDE, _with a candle_. P. SER. Where are you, my lord? HOG. Here, my lady. Where are you, rogue, when thieves break into my house? P. SER. Breaking my neck in your service--a plague on't! Y. LORD W. But are you robbed, indeed, father Hog? Of how much, I pray? HOG. Of all, of all! See here, they have left me nothing but two or three rolls of parchment; here they came up like spirits, and took my silver, gold, and jewels. Where's my daughter? P. SER. She's not in the house, sir. The street-doors are wide open. Y. LORD W. Nay, 'tis no matter where she is now. She'll scarce be worth a thousand pound, and that's but a tailor's prize.[399] HOG. Then you'll not have her, sir? Y. LORD W. No, as I hope to live in peace. HOG. Why, be't so, be't so; confusion cannot come in a fitter time on all of us. O bountiful Croesus! how fine thy shadow hath devoured my substance! P. SER. Good my lord, promise him to marry his daughter, or he will be mad presently, though you never intend to have her. Y. LORD W. Well, father Hog, though you are undone, your daughter shall not be, so long as a lord can stand her in any stead. Come, you shall with me to my lord and father, whose warrants we will have for the apprehending of all suspicious livers; and, though the labour be infinite, you must consider your loss is so. HOG. Come, I'll do anything to gain my gold. P. SER. Till which be had, my fare will be but cold. [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ HADDIT, REBECCA, LIGHTFOOT, _and_ PRIEST. HAD. Now, Master Parson, we will no further trouble you; and, for the tying of our true love-knot, here's a small amends. PRIEST. 'Tis more than due, sir; yet I'll take it all. Should kindness be despis'd, goodwill would fall Unto a lower ebb, should we detest The grateful giver's gift, _verissimo est_. HAD. It's true, indeed; good morrow, honest parson. PRIEST. Yet, if you please, sir John will back surrender The overplus of what you now did tender. HAD. O, by no means; I prythee, friend, good morrow. LIGHT. Why. if you please, sir John, to me restore The overplus: I'll give it to the poor. PRIEST. O, pardon, sir, for, by your worship's leave, We ought to give from whence we do receive. HAD. Why, then, to me, sir John. PRIEST. To all a kind good-morrow. [_Exit_ PRIEST.