She says, if you dare make your self a Fortune, She will propose the means; my Lord _Don Henrique_ Is now from home, and she alone expects you, If you dare trust her, so, if not despair of A second offer. [_Exit_. _Jam_. Though there were an Ambush Laid for my life, I'le on and sound this secret. Retire thee, my _Ascanio_, with thy Mother: But stir not forth, some great design's on foot, Fall what can fall, if e're the Sun be set I see you not, give me for dead. _Asc_. We will expect you, And those bless'd Angels, that love goodness, guard you. [_Exeunt_. SCENA V. _Enter_ Lopez _and_ Bartolus. _Bar_. Is't possible he should be rich? _Lop_. Most possible, He hath been long, though he had but little gettings, Drawing together, Sir. _Bar_. Accounted a poor Sexton, Honest poor _Diego_. _Lop_. I assure ye, a close Fellow, Both close, and scraping, and that fills the Bags, Sir. _Bar_. A notable good fellow too? _Lop_. Sometimes, Sir, When he hop'd to drink a man into a Surfeit, That he might gain by his Grave. _Bar_. So many thousands? _Lop_. Heaven knows what. _Bar. 'Tis strange, 'Tis very strange; but we see by endeavour, And honest labour-- _Lop_. _Milo_, by continuance Grew from a silly Calf (with your worships reverence) To carry a Bull, from a penny, to a pound, Sir, And from a pound, to many: 'tis the progress. _Bar_. Ye say true, but he lov'd to feed well also, And that me-thinks-- _Lop_. From another mans Trencher, Sir, And there he found it season'd with small charge: There he would play the Tyrant, and would devour ye More than the Graves he made; at home he liv'd Like a Camelion, suckt th' Air of misery, [_Table out, Standish, Paper, Stools_. And grew fat by the Brewis of an Egg-shell, Would smell a Cooks-shop, and go home and surfeit. And be a month in fasting out that Fever. _Bar_. These are good Symptoms: do's he lye so sick say ye? _Lop_. Oh, very sick. _Bar_. And chosen me Executor? _Lop_. Only your Worship. _Bar_. No hope of his amendment? _Lop_. None, that we find. _Bar_. He hath no Kinsmen neither? _Lop_. 'Truth, very few, _Bar_. His mind will be the quieter. What Doctors has he? _Lop_. There's none, Sir, he believes in. _Bar_. They are but needless things, in such extremities. Who draws the good mans Will? _Lop_. Marry that do I, Sir, And to my grief. _Bar_.