KING. The house of God; It is too good to change: pray you, proceed. BREW. These are my ends: to all distressed Christians, Whose travels this way bend, the hospital shall Free succour be for three days and three nights Sojourn: diet[104] and lodging, both sweet and satisfying: And (if their need be such) as much in coin As shall, for three days more, defray their further travel: This unto heaven--be you testator, good my liege, And witness with me, noble gentlemen-- Most free and faithfully I dedicate. KING. An honourable work, and deserves large memory. MONT. 'Tis a good example, 'tis pity 'tis no better followed. ARUN. But say, sir: now in some future age, Perhaps some two or three hundred year behind us, This place, intended for a use so charitable, Should be unhallow'd again by villanous inhabitants, Say whores instead of Christians, and Your hospital tenements turn'd into stews, Would not this grieve you in your grave?[105] BREW. If my grave were capable of grief, sure it would, sir. KING. Prythee, be a false prophet. ARUN. I will, if I can, my lord. KING. Let now our heralds in the streets proclaim The title and [the] office of this hospital; Make known to all distressed travellers, That we'll accept his charitable house; This _Domus Dei_ shall be their free sojourn, As is proposed. _Enter on the one side_ STEPHEN'S WIFE; _on the_ _other_ OLD FOSTER, MISTRESS FOSTER, JANE, ROBERT, _and_ KEEPER. _All kneel._ KING. What are these petitioners? ROB. Each hath a knee for duty, the other for petition. KING. Rise, your duty's done; your petitions Shall need no knees, so your intents be honest: Does none here know them? STEPH. Yes, my good lord, There's now a wonder in your sight. KING. A wonder, Master Sheriff? You mean for beauty? STEPH. No, my liege, I would not So boast mine own wife; but it is a wonder That excels beauty. KING. A wonder in a woman! What is't, I prythee? STEPH. Patience, my liege; This is a woman that was never vex'd. KING. You may boast it largely; 'tis a subject's happiness Above a queen's. Have you suits to us? ROB. I am the suppliant plaintiff, royal Henry; From me their griefs take their original. KING. What art thou? ROB. Even what your grace shall please to make of me: I was the son to this distressed father, Until he took his paternity off, And threw me from his love; then I became Son to mine uncle by adoption; Who likewise that hath ta'en away again, And thrown me back to poverty: never was son So toss'd betwixt two fathers, yet knows not one; For still the richest does despise his heir, And I am back expuls'd into despair. KING. This may your vices cause.