ROB. O, if I be thus hateful to your eye, I will depart, and wish I soon may die; Yet let your blessing, sir, but fall on me. O. FOS. My heart still hates thee. MRS FOS. Sweet husband! O. FOS. Get you both gone! That misery takes some rest that dwells alone; Away, thou villain! ROB. Heaven can tell, Ache but your finger, I, to make it well, Would cut my hand off. O. FOS. Hang thee, hang thee! MRS FOS. Husband! O. FOS. Destruction meet thee! Turn the key there, ho! ROB. Good sir, I'm gone; I will not stay to grieve you. O, knew you for your woes what pains I feel, You would not scorn me so. See, sir, to cool Your heat of burning sorrow, I have got Two hundred pounds, and glad it is my lot To lay it down with reverence at your feet; No comfort in the world to me is sweet, Whilst thus you live in moan. O. FOS. Stay! ROB. Good troth, sir, I'll have none on't back, Could but one penny of it save my life. MRS FOS. Yet stay and hear him. O unnatural strife In a hard father's bosom! O. FOS. I see mine error now. O, can there grow A rose upon a bramble? Did there e'er flow Poison and health together in one tide? I'm born a man: reason may step aside, And lead a father's love out of the way: Forgive me, my good boy, I went astray: Look, on my knees I beg it--not for joy Thou bring'st this golden rubbish, which I spurn; But glad in this, the heavens mine eyeballs turn, And fix them right to look upon that face, Where love remains with pity, duty, grace. O my dear wronged boy! ROB. Gladness o'erwhelms my heart! With joy I cannot speak! MRS FOS. Crosses of this foolish world Did never grieve my heart with torments more, Than it is now grown light With joy and comfort of this happy sight. O. FOS. Yet, wife, I disinherited this boy. ROB. Your blessing's all I crave. O. FOS. And that enjoy For ever: evermore my blessings fly To pay thy virtues, love and charity. _Enter_ STEPHEN'S WIFE. MRS FOS. Here comes your brother's wife. Welcome, dear sister. WIFE. I thank you. How fare you, brother? O. FOS. Better than your husband's hate could wish me, That laughs to see my back with sorrows bow: But I am rid of half my ague now. WIFE. Had you an ague, then? O. FOS. Yes, and my heart had every hour a fit; But now't has left me well, and I left it. WIFE. O, 'tis well. Cousin, what make you here, I pray? ROB. To support a weak house falling to decay. WIFE. 'Tis well if you can do't, and that the timber You underprop it with be all your own. Hark, coz, where's your uncle's money? ROB. Faith, aunt, 'tis gone; But not at dice nor drabbing. WIFE. Sir, I believe, With your uncle's gold your father you relieve.