Harf. Lame and blind! Oh Beaumont! (aside).
John. Ay, sir, old age will come on; and, God knows, we have very little means to fence against it.
Beau. What, have you nothing but your labour to subsist on?
John. We made that do, sir, as long as we could; but now I am hardly capable of doing anything, and my poor wife can earn very little by spinning, so we have been forced at last to apply to the parish.
Harf. To the parish! Well I hope they consider the services of your better days, and provide for you comfortably.
John. Alas, sir; I am not much given to complain; but what can two shillings a week do in these hard times?
Harf. Little enough, indeed! And is that all they allow you?
John. It is, sir; and we are not to have that much longer, for they say we must come into the workhouse.
Mary (entering with the water). Here, gentlemen, the jug is clean, if you can drink out of it.
Harf. The workhouse, do you say?