Fra. In a Mill.
You may perceive it by my loud exclaims,
Which must rise higher yet.
Jul. Obstreperous Carle,
If thy throats tempest could o'erturn my house,
What satisfaction were it for thy child:
Turn thee the right way to thy journeys end.
Wilt have her where she is not?
Fra. Here was she lost,
And here must I begin my footing after;
From whence, until I meet a pow'r to punish,
I will not rest: You are not quick to grief.
Your hearing's a dead sense. Were yours the loss,
Had you a Daughter [stoln], perhaps be-whor'd,
(For to what other end should come the thief?)
You'ld play the Miller then, be loud and high.
But being not a sorrow of your own,
You have no help nor pity for another.
Jul. Oh, thou hast op'd a Sluce was long shut up,
And let a floud of grief in; a buried grief
Thy voice hath wak'd again: a grief as old
As likely 'tis thy child is; friend, I tell thee,
I did once lose a Daughter.
Fra. Did you, Sir?
Beseech you then, how did you bear her loss?
Jul. With thy grief trebled.
Fra. But was she stolen from you?
Jul. Yes, by devouring thieves, from whom cannot
Ever return a satisfaction:
The wild beasts had her in her swathing clothes.
Fra. Oh much good do 'em with her.
Jul. Away tough churle.