Rut. Troth 'tis uncertain,
Drowning we have scap'd miraculously, and
Stand fair for ought I know for hanging; mony
We have none, nor e're are like to have,
'Tis to be doubted: besides we are strangers,
Wondrous hungry strangers; and charity
Growing cold, and miracles ceasing,
Without a Conjurers help, cannot find
When we shall eat again.
Arn. These are no wants
If put in ballance with Zenocias loss;
In that alone all miseries are spoken:
O my Rutilio, when I think on her,
And that which she may suffer, being a Captive,
Then I could curse my self, almost those powers
That send me from the fury of the Ocean.
Rut. You have lost a wife indeed, a fair and chast one,
Two blessings, not found often in one woman;
But she may be recovered, questionless
The ship that took us was of Portugal,
And here in Lisbon, by some means or other
We may hear of her.
Arn. In that hope I live.
Rut. And so do I, but hope is a poor Sallad To dine and sup with, after a two dayes fast too, Have you no mony left?
Arn. Not a Denier.
Rut. Nor any thing to pawn? 'tis now in fashion, Having a Mistress, sure you should not be Without a neat Historical shirt.
Arn. For shame Talk not so poorly.
Rut. I must talk of that
Necessity prompts us to, for beg I cannot,
Nor am I made to creep in at a window,
To filch to feed me, something must be done,
And suddenly resolve on't.
Enter Zabulon and a Servant.