RICH. Good sir, resolve not thus; return again, Your debts are not so great that you should yield Your body thus to prison unconstrain'd. O. FOS. I will not trust the iron hearts of men; My credit's lost, my wealth the sea has swallowed, Wrack'd at my door, even in the mouth o' th' Thames; O my misfortune! never man like me Was so thrown down and cast to misery. RICH. Dear sir, be patient! O. FOS. I prythee, get thee gone, And with thy diligence assist thy mistress To keep that little left to help herself; Whilst here in Ludgate I secure my body From writs, arrests, and executions, Which, well I know, my cruel creditors Will thunder on me. Go, get thee gone! If what is left they'll take, do thou agree; If not, I am resolv'd here to stay and die. RICH. I'll do my best, sir, to procure your peace. [_Exit._ O. FOS. Do so. [_To the_ KEEPER.] Come, sir, I yield myself your prisoner: You are the keeper of this Ludgate? KEEPER. Yes, sir; Your name is register'd amongst the prisoners. O. FOS. So! I have seen the fair outside of this tomb before; This goodly apple has a rotten core. KEEPER. As all prisons have, sir. O. FOS. I prythee, bar me of no privilege Due to a free citizen: thou knowest me well? KEEPER. Yes, Master Foster, and I sorrow for your losses, Yet doubt not but your son and brother---- O. FOS. O, speak not of them! do not kiss and kill me; I have no son nor brother that esteems me, And I for ever hate their memory. Prythee, no more! I am come sick Into a bad inn, and look for worse attendance: I have taken a surfeit of misfortunes, and here Must swallow pills, with poison to recure me: I am sea-sick, sir, and heave my hands to heaven; Ne'er to so low an ebb was Foster driven. KEEPER. There be some fees to pay, sir, at your coming in. O. FOS. So, so! If this old walnut-tree, after all this cudgelling, Have but one cluster left, thou shalt have that too; If not, take off these leaves that cover me, Pull off these white locks! rend them from my head! And let them in my woes be buried. KEEPER. 'Las, sir! this house is poor. O. FOS. I think no less, For rich men seldom meet with such distress: Well, well! what book must I read over now? What servile oar must I be tied to here, Slave-like to tug within this Christian galley? KEEPER. Sir, being the youngest prisoner in the house, You must beg at the iron grate above, As others do, for your relief and theirs. O. FOS. For a beggar to beg, sir, is no shame; And for the iron grate, it bears an emblem Of iron-hearted creditors, that force men lie In loathsome prisons thus to starve and die. _Enter_ ROBERT.