Job. I—
Bur. Pray, now, master, don't say any more!—Come, be a man! get on your things; and face the bailiffs that are rummaging the goods.
Job. I can't, John; I can't. My heart's heavier than all the iron and brass in my shop.
Bur. Nay, consider what confusion!—pluck up a courage; do, now!
Job. Well, I'll try.
Bur. Aye, that's right: here's your clothes. [Taking them from the Back of a Chair.] They'll play the devil with all the pots and pans, if you aren't by.—Why, I warrant you'll do! Bless you, what should ail you?
Job. Ail me? do you go and get a daughter, John Bur; then let her run away from you, and you'll know what ails me.
Bur. Come, here's your coat and waistcoat. [Going to help him on with his Clothes] This is the waistcoat young mistress work'd with her own hands, for your birth-day, five years ago. Come, get into it, as quick as you can.
Job. [Throwing it on the Floor violently.] I'd as lieve get into my coffin. She'll have me there soon. Psha! rot it! I'm going to snivel. Bur, go, and get me another.
Bur. Are you sure you won't put it on?