Tim. To your task, Burr.
Enter NONSUCH and ISABELLA.
Const. Hold, gentlemen! no sign of quarrel.
Non. O, friends! I think I shall go mad with grief: I have lost more money.
Lov. Would I had it: that's all the harm I wish myself. Your servant, madam; I go about the business.
Exit LOVEBY.
Non. What! does he take no pity on me?
Const. Pr'ythee, moan him, Isabella.
Isa. Alas, alas, poor uncle! could they find in their hearts to rob him!
Non. Five hundred pounds, out of poor six thousand pounds a-year! I, and mine, are undone for ever.