Fab. How now what's the matter?
Fra. O Sir my Brother! O my dearest Brother!
Clor. This drunken trowgh has kill'd him.
Fab. Kill'd him?
Clor. Yes.
For Heavens sake hang him quickly, he will do
Ev'ry day such a murder else, there is nothing
But a strong Gallows that can make him quiet,
I finde it in his nature too late.
Fab. Pray be quiet,
Let me come to him.
Clor. Some go for a Surgeon.
Fra. O what a wretched woman has he made me!
Let me alone good Sir.
Fab. To what a fortune,
Hast thou reserv'd thy life!
Ja. Fabritio.