Susan. I was not born a beggar, though his extremes Enforce this language from me: I protest No fortune of mine own could lead my tongue To this base key. I do beseech you, uncle, For the name’s sake, for Christianity, Nay, for God’s sake, to pity his distress: He is denied the freedom of the prison, And in the hole is laid with men condemned; Plenty he hath of nothing but of irons, And it remains in you to free him thence. Old Mountford. Money I cannot spare; men should take heed; He lost my kindred when he fell to need. [_Exit_. Susan. Gold is but earth, thou earth enough shalt have, When thou hast once took measure of thy grave. You know me, Master Sandy, and my suit. Sandy. I knew you, lady, when the old man lived; I knew you ere your brother sold his land; Then you sung well, played sweetly on the lute; But now I neither know you nor your suit. [_Exit_. Susan. You, Master Roder, was my brother’s tenant, Rent free he placed you in that wealthy farm, Of which you are possessed. Roder. True, he did; And have I not there dwelt still for his sake? I have some business now; but, without doubt, They that have hurled him in will help him out. [_Exit_. Susan. Cold comfort still: what say you, cousin Tidy? Tidy. I say this comes of roysting, swaggering. Call me not cousin: each man for himself. Some men are born to mirth, and some to sorrow. I am no cousin unto them that borrow. [_Exit_. Susan. O charity! why art thou fled to heaven, And left all things upon this earth uneven? Their scoffing answers I will ne’er return; But to myself his grief in silence mourn. _Enter_ Sir Francis Acton _and_ Malby. Sir Francis Acton. She is poor, I’ll therefore tempt her with this gold. Go, Malby, in my name deliver it, And I will stay thy answer. Malby. Fair mistress, as I understand, your grief Doth grow from want, so I have here in store A means to furnish you, a bag of gold, Which to your hands I freely tender you. Susan. I thank you, Heavens! I thank you, gentle sir: God make me able to requite this favour! Malby. This gold Sir Francis Acton sends by me, And prays you---- Susan. Acton! O God! that name I am born to curse: Hence, bawd! hence, broker! see, I spurn his gold; My honour never shall for gain be sold. Sir Francis Acton. Stay, lady, stay. Susan. From you I’ll posting hie, Even as the doves from feathered eagles fly. [_Exit_.