_Pri._ Yes, wrong'd me! In the nicest point, The honour of my house, you've done me wrong. You may remember (for I now will speak, And urge its baseness) when you first came home From travel, with such hopes as made you look'd on, By all men's eyes, a youth of expectation, Pleas'd with your growing virtue, I receiv'd you; Courted, and sought to raise you to your merits: My house, my table, nay, my fortune too, My very self, was yours; you might have us'd me To your best service; like an open friend I treated, trusted you, and thought you mine: When, in requital of my best endeavours, You treacherously practis'd to undo me. _Jaf._ Yes, all, and then adieu for ever. There's not a wretch, that lives on common charity, But's happier than me: for I have known The luscious sweets of plenty; every night Have slept with soft content about my head, And never wak'd, but to a joyful morning; Yet now must fall, like a full ear of corn, Whose blossom 'scap'd, yet's wither'd in the ripening. _Pri._ Home, and be humble; study to retrench; Discharge the lazy vermin of thy hall, Those pageants of thy folly: Reduce the glitt'ring trappings of thy wife To humble weeds, fit for thy little state: Then, to some suburb cottage both retire; Drudge to feed loathsome life; get brats and starve-- Home, home, I say. [_exit._ _Jaf._ Yes, if my heart would let me-- This proud, this swelling heart: home I would go, But that my doors are baleful to my eyes, Fill'd and dam'd up with gaping creditors, Watchful as fowlers when their game will spring. I've now not fifty ducats in the world, Yet still I am in love, and pleas'd with ruin. Oh! Belvidera! Oh! she is my wife-- And we will bear our wayward fate together, But ne'er know comfort more. _Enter Pierre._ _Pier._ My friend, good morrow; How fares the honest partner of my heart? What, melancholy! not a word to spare me? _Jaf._ I'm thinking, Pierre, how that damn'd starving quality, Call'd honesty, got footing in the world. _Pier._ Why, powerful villany first set it up, For its own ease and safety. Honest men Are the soft easy cushions on which knaves Repose and fatten. Were all mankind villains, They'd starve each other; lawyers would want practice, Cut-throats rewards: each man would kill his brother Himself; none would be paid or hang'd for murder. Honesty! 'twas a cheat invented first To bind the hands of bold deserving rogues, That fools and cowards might sit safe in power, And lord it uncontrol'd above their betters. _Jaf._ Then honesty is but a notion? _Pier._ Nothing else; Like wit, much talk'd of, not to be defin'd: He that pretends to most, too, has least share in't. 'Tis a ragged virtue: Honesty! no more on't. _Jaf._ Sure thou art honest!