_Sim._ Thieves! Thieves! Thieves! _Storm._ Thieves! Thieves! Why, you senseless dog, do you think there's thieves in Newgate? Away with him to the tap-house. [_Pushes him off._] We'll drink his coat off. Come, my little chemist, thou shalt transmute this jacket into liquor; liquor that will make us forget the evil day. And while day is ours, let us be merry. For little villains must submit to fate, That great ones may enjoy the world in state. [_Exeunt._ ACT THE FIFTH. SCENE I.--_Newgate._ YOUNG BOOKWIT _discovered on a couch asleep_, LATINE _looking on him._ _Lat._ How quietly he rests! Oh that I could, By watching him, hanging thus over him, And, feeling all his care, protract his sleep! Oh, sleep! thou sweetest gift of Heaven to man, Still in thy downy arms embrace my friend, Nor loose him from his inexistent trance To sense of yesterday and pain of being; In thee oppressors soothe their angry brow, In thee the oppressed forget tyrannic power, In thee---- The wretch condemned is equal to his judge, And the sad lover to his cruel fair; Nay, all the shining glories men pursue, When thou art wanted, are but empty noise. Who then would court the pomp of guilty power, When the mind sickens at the weary show, And dies to temporary death for ease; When half our life's cessation of our being---- He wakes---- How do I pity that returning life, Which I could hazard thousand lives to save! _Y. Book._ How heavily do I awake this morning! Oh, this senseless drinking! To suffer a whole week's pain for an hour's jollity! Methinks my senses are burning round me. I have but interrupted hints of the last night----Ha! in a gaol! Oh, I remember, I remember. Oh, Lovemore! Lovemore! I remember---- _Lat._ You must have patience, and bear it like a man. _Y. Book._ Oh, whither shall I run to avoid myself? Why all these bars? These bolted iron gates? They're needless to secure me----Here, here's my rack, My gaol, my torture---- Oh, I can't bear it. I cannot bear the rushing of new thoughts; Fancy expands my senses to distraction, And my soul stretches to that boundless space To which I've sent my wretched, wretched friend. Oh, Latine! Latine! Is all our mirth and humour come to this? Give me thy bosom, close in thy bosom hide me From thy eyes; I cannot bear their pity or reproach. _Lat._ Dear Bookwit, how heartily I love you--I don't know what to say. But pray have patience. _Y. Book._ If you can't bear my pain that's but communicated by your pity, how shall I my proper inborn woe, my wounded mind? _Lat._ In all assaults of fortune that should be serene, Not in the power of accident or chance----