O. FOS. I have no such fat legacy left me, To teach me how to play the hypocrite. KEEPER. No? Why, look ye, sir, you shall want neither meat, drink, money, nor anything that the house affords; or if anything abroad like ye, sir, here's money, send for what you will, sir. Nay, you shall beg no more at the grate neither. O. FOS. Ha! is not this Ludgate? KEEPER. Yes, sir. O. FOS. A jail, a prison, a tomb of men lock'd up, Alive and buried? KEEPER. 'Tis what you please to call it. O. FOS. O, at what crevice, then, hath comfort, Like a sunbeam, crept in? for all the doors And windows are of iron, and barr'd to keep Her out. I had a limb cut from my body Dear to me as [my] life; I had a son And brother, too. O grief! They both would give me poison first in gold, Before their hollow palms ten drops should hold Of nature's drink, cold water, but to save My life one minute: whence should pity come, When my best friends do beat it from this room? KEEPER. No matter, sir; since you have good meat set before you, never ask who sent it. If heaven provide for you, and make the fowls of the air your caters, feed you fat, and be thankful; and so I leave you. [_Exit._ MRS FOS. The keeper is your friend, and pours true balm Into your smarting wounds; therefore, dear husband, Endure the dressing with patience. O. FOS. O wife, my losses are as numberless As the sea-sands that swallowed them! And shall I, In reckoning them, my sad griefs multiply? MRS FOS. You may, sir; But your dim eyes so thick with tears do run, You cannot see from whence your comforts come: Besides, your debts being truly counted Cannot be great. O. FOS. But all my wealth and state lies in the sea's bottom. MRS FOS. It again may rise. O. FOS. O, never! MRS FOS. Good sir, so hope, for I from heaven espy An arm to pluck you from this misery. _Enter_ KEEPER. KEEPER. Sir, there's one without desires to speak with you. O. FOS. Go, send him in. [_Exit_ KEEPER.] None comes to do me good, My wealth is lost, now let them take my blood. _Enter_ ROBERT. Ha! what art thou? Call for the keeper there, And thrust him out of doors, or lock me up. MRS FOS. O, 'tis your son, sir! O. FOS. I know him not: [ROBERT _kneels_. I am no king, unless of scorn and woe; Why kneel'st thou, then? Why dost thou mock me so? ROB. O my dear father, hither am I come, Not like a threat'ning storm t' increase your wrack, For I would take all sorrows from your back, To lay them all on my own. O. FOS. Rise, mischief, rise! Away, and get thee gone!