_Arc._ Be not deceiv'd; he has had no favour here, Sir, Nor had you known this now, but for that Pick-thank, The lost man in his faith, he has reveal'd it, To suck a little honey from ye has betray'd it. I swear he smiles upon me, and forsworn too, Thou crackt, uncurrant Lord: I'll tell ye all, Sir: Your Sire, before his death, knowing your temper, To be as bounteous as the air, and open, As flowing as the Sea to all that follow'd ye, Your great mind fit for War and Glory, thriftily Like a great Husband to preserve your actions, Collected all this treasure; to our trusts, To mine I mean, and to that long-tongu'd Lord's there, He gave the knowledg and the charge of all this, Upon his death-Bed too: And on the Sacrament He swore us thus, never to let this Treasure Part from our secret keepings, till no hope Of Subject could relieve ye, all your own wasted, No help of those that lov'd ye could supply ye, And then some great exploit a foot; my honesty I would have kept till I had made this useful; I shew'd it, and I stood it to the tempest, And useful to the end 'twas left: I am cozen'd, And so are you too, if you spend this vainly; This Worm that crept into ye has abus'd ye, Abus'd your fathers care, abus'd his Faith too: Nor can this mass of money make him man more, A flea'd Dog has more soul, an Ape more honesty; All mine ye have amongst it, farewel that, I cannot part with't nobler; my heart's clear, My Conscience smooth as that, no rub upon't: But O thy Hell! _Bor._ I seek no Heaven from you, Sir. _Arc._ Thy gnawing Hell, _Boroskey_, it will find thee: Would ye heap Coals upon his head has wrong'd ye, Has ruin'd your estate? give him this money, Melt it into his mouth. _Du._ What little Trunk's that? That there o'th' top, that's lockt? _Bor._ You'll find it rich, Sir, Richer I think than all. _Arc._ You were not covetous, Nor wont to weave your thoughts with such a courseness; Pray rack not Honesty. _Bor._ Be sure you see it. _Du._ Bring out the Trunk. _Enter with the Trunk._ _Arc._ You'll find that treasure too, All I have left me now. _Du._ What's this, a poor Gown? And this a piece of _Seneca_? _Arc._ Yes sure, Sir, More worth than all your Gold, yet ye have enough on't, And of a Mine far purer, and more precious; This sells no friends, nor searches into counsels, And yet all counsel, and all friends live here, Sir; Betrays no Faith, yet handles all that's trusty: Will't please you leave me this? _Du._ With all my heart, Sir. _Ar._ What says your Lordship to't? _Bor._ I dare not rob ye.