Tib. They hang but lightly on though.
Amint. How they look, are they mens faces?
Tib. They have horse-tails growing to 'em.
Goodly long manes.
Amint. Alas what sunk eyes they have!
How they are crept in, as if they had been frighted!
Sure they are wretched men.
Tib. Where are their Wardrobes?
Look ye Franvile, here are a couple of Courtiers.
Amint. They kneel, alas poor souls.
Alb. What are ye? speak; are ye alive,
Or wandring shadows, that find no peace on earth,
Till ye reveal some hidden secret?
Sebast. We are men as you are;
Only our miseries make us seem monsters,
If ever pitty dwelt in noble hearts.
Alb. We understand 'em too: pray mark ['em] Gentlemen.
Sebast. Or that heaven is pleas'd with humane charity;
If ever ye have heard the name of friendship,
Or suffered in your selves, the least afflictions,
Have gentle Fathers that have bred ye tenderly,
And Mothers that have wept for your misfortunes,
Have mercy on our miseries.