RICH. Sir, mine's a servant's duty, his a son's; Nor know I better how to express my love Unto yourself, than by loving your son. O. FOS. By concealing of his pilferings. RICH. I dare not call them so; he is my second master, And methinks 'tis far above my limits Either to check or to complain of him. BREW. Gramercy, Dick, thou mak'st a good construction; [_To_ O. FOS.] And your son Robert a natural nephew's part To relieve his poor uncle. O. FOS. 'Tis in neither well, sir: for note but the Condition of my estate; I'm lately married To a wealthy widow, from whom my substance Chiefly does arise: she has observed this in her Son-in-law, often complains and grudges at it, And what foul broils such civil discords bring, Few married men are ignorant of. _Enter_ MISTRESS FOSTER. Nay, will you see a present proof of it? MRS FOS. Shall I not live to breathe a quiet hour? I would I were a beggar with content Rather than thus be thwarted for mine own. O. FOS. Why, what's the matter, woman? MRS FOS. I'll rouse 'em up, Though you regard not of my just complaints, Neither in love to me, nor [for] preserving me From other injuries, both which you're tied to By all the rightful laws, heavenly or humane-- But I'll complain, sir, where I will be heard. O. FOS. Nay, thou'lt be heard too far. MRS FOS. Nay, sir, I will be heard: Some awkward star threw out's unhappy fire At my conception, and 'twill never quench, While I have heat in me. Would I were cold! There would be bonfires made to warm defame: My death would be a jubilee to some. O. FOS. Why, sir, how should I minister remedy And know not the cause? BREW. Mother-o'-pearl![42] Woman, shew your husband the cause. MRS FOS. Had he been a husband, sir, I had no cause. [So] to complain: I threw down at his feet The subjection of his whole estate: he did not Marry me for love's sake, nor for pity; But love to that I had; he now neglects The love he had before: a prodigal Is suffer'd to lay waste those worldly blessings, Which I enclosed long,[43] intending for good uses. O. FOS. That's my son. MRS FOS. Ay, thou know'st it well enough; He's the conduit-pipe That throws it forth into the common shore. O. FOS. And th' other's my brother. MRS FOS. You may well shame, As I do grieve the kindred; but I'd make The one a stranger, the other a servant-- No son nor brother; for they deserve neither Of those offices. O. FOS. Why, did I ever cherish him! have not I threaten'd him With disinheritance for this disorder? MRS FOS. Why do you not perform it? O. FOS. The other's in Ludgate.