Bev. Would I were dead!
Stu. Or turned hermit; counting a string of beads in a dark cave; or under a weeping willow, praying for mercy on the wicked. Ha! ha! ha! Prithee be a man, and leave dying to disease and old age. Fortune may be ours again; at least, we'll try for't.
Bev. No, it has fooled us on too far.
Stu. Ay, ruined us; and therefore we'll sit down contented. These are the despondings of men without money; but let the shining ore chink in the pocket, and folly turns to wisdom. We are fortune's children. True, she's a fickle mother; but shall We droop because She's peevish? No; she has smiles in store. And these her frowns are meant to brighten them.
Bev. Is this a time for levity? But You are single in the ruin, and therefore may talk lightly of it. With Me 'tis complicated misery,
Stu. You censure me unjustly. I but assumed these spirits to chear my friend. Heaven knows he wants a comforter.
Bev. What new misfortune?
Stu. I would have brought you money; but lenders want securities. What's to be done? All that was mine is yours already.
Bev. And there's the weight that sinks me. I have undone my friend too; one, who to save a drowning wretch, reached out his hand, and perished with him.
Stu. Have better thoughts.