Alin. Prepar'd thus?
The blessing of a Father never reach'd it:
His contemplation now scorns ye, contemns ye,
And all the tortures ye can use. Let him die thus;
And these that know and love revenge will laugh at ye:
Here lies the honour of a well-bred anger,
To make his enemy shake and tremble under him;
Doubt, nay, almost despair, and then confound him.
This man ye rock asleep, and all your rages
Are Requiems to his parting soul, meer Anthems.
Rod. Indeed he is strongly built.
Alin. You cannot shake him;
And the more weight ye put on his foundation,
Now as he stands, ye fix him still the stronger;
If ye love him, honour him, would heap upon him
Friendships and benefits beyond example,
Hope him a Star in Heaven, and there would stick him,
Now take his life.
Rod. I had rather take mine own, Boy.
Alin. I'le ease him presently.
Rod. Stay, be not hasty.
Alin. Bless my tongue still.
Lop. What has the boy done to him?
How dull, and still he looks!
Alin. You are a wise man,
And long have buckled with the worlds extremities,
A valiant man, and no doubt know both fortunes,
And would ye work your Master-piece thus madly,
Take the bare name of honour, that will pity ye
When the world knows ye have prey'd on a poor Pilgrim?
Rod. The boy has stagger'd me: what would'st thou have me?