STEPH. If e'er I live to see thee sheriff of London, I'll gild thy painted posts[47] _cum privilegio_, And kick thy sergeants. ROB. Nay, good uncle! STEPH. Why, I'll beg for thee, boy; I'll break this leg, and bind it up again, To pull out pity from a stony breast, Rather than thou shalt want. O. FOS. Ay, do; let him sear up his arm, and scarf it up With two yards of rope; counterfeit two villains; Beg under a hedge, and share your bounty:[48] But come not near my house; Nor thou in's company, if thou'lt obey: There's punishment for thee; for thee there's worse: The loss of all that's mine, with my dear curse. [_Exeunt._ _Manent_ STEPHEN _and_ ROBERT. STEPH. Churl! dog! you churlish rascally miser! ROB. Nay, good uncle, throw not foul language; This is but heat, sir, and I doubt not but To cool this rage with my obedience: But, uncle, you must not then heap[49] such fuel. STEPH. Coz, I grieve for thee, that thou hast undergone Thy father's curse for love unto thy uncle. ROB. Tut! that bond shall ne'er be cancell'd, sir. STEPH. I pity that, i'faith. ROB. Let pity then for me turn to yourself: Bethink yourself, sir, of some course that might Befit your estate, and let me guide it. STEPH. Ha, a course? 'Sfoot! I have't![50] Coz, canst lend me forty shillings? Could I but repair this old decay'd tenement of mine with some new plaister; for, alas, what can a man do in such a case as this? ROB. Ay, but your course, uncle? STEPH. Tush! leave that to me, because thou shalt wonder at it: if you should see me in a scarlet gown within the compass of a gold chain, then I hope you'll say that I do keep myself in good compass: then, sir, if the cap of maintenance[51] do march before me, and not a cap be suffer'd to be worn in my presence, pray do not upbraid me with my former poverty. I cannot tell, state and wealth may make a man forget himself; but, I beseech you, do not; there are things in my head that you dream not of; dare you try me, coz? ROB. Why, forty shillings, uncle, shall not keep back Your fortunes. STEPH. Why, gramercy, coz. [_Aside._] Now if the dice do run right, this forty shillings may set me up again: to lay't on my back, and so to pawn it, there's ne'er a damn'd broker in the world will give me half the worth on't: no, whilst 'tis in ready cash, that's the surest way: seven is better than eleven; a pox take the bones![52] an they will not favour a man sometimes. ROB. Look you, uncle, there's forty shillings for you.