Gwin. I feel as if within these two days, infirm old age had crept upon me—my blood is chilled, and courses through my veins with lazy coldness—my brain is stunned—my eyes discern not clearly—my very hair feels grey and blasted; alas! ’tis no wonder, I have within these few hours been hurled from a throne of earthly happiness—snatched from the regions of ideal bliss—and cast, bound, and fettered within a prison’s walls—and my name—my innocent name, stamped in the book of infamy—oh! was man to contemplate at one view the evil he’s to suffer, madness would seize on half his kind—but misery, day by day works on, laying at intervals such weights upon us, which, if placed at once would crush us out of life.—Ah! the gaoler!
Bolt. A good-day to you, master Ambrose.
Gwin. “Good-day” friend! let good days pass between those happy men, who freely may exchange them beneath the eye of heaven.—“Good-day” to a wretch like me! it has a sound of mockery.
Bolt. And yet believe me, Sir, I meant not so.
Gwin. I am sure you did not. It was my own waywardness that misconstrued you—I am sorry—pardon me, good man—and if you would yield a favour to a hapless creature, now standing on the brink of the grave, leave me—I fain would strive to look with calmness into that wormy bed wherein I soon must lie.
Bolt. Poor fellow, he forgets—but good master Gwinett—
Gwin. Well—be quick—for my minutes are counted—I must play the miser with them.
Bolt. Do you not remember the sentence?
Gwin. Remember?
Bolt. But the whole of it?