Ger. Heaven shield it, Sir.
Gos. Faith, thou must lose thy Master.
Ger. I had rather lose my neck, Sir: would I knew—
Gos. What would the knowledg do thee good so miserable, Thou canst not help thy self? when all my ways Nor all the friends I have—
Ger. You do not know Sir, What I can do: cures sometimes, for mens cares Flow, where they least expect 'em.
Gos. I know thou wouldst do, But farewell Clause, and pray for thy poor Master.
Ger. I will not leave ye.
Gos. How?
Ger. I dare not leave ye, Sir, I must not leave ye,
And till ye beat me dead, I will not leave ye.
By what ye hold most precious, by Heavens goodness,
As your fair youth may prosper, good Sir tell me:
My mind believes yet something's in my power
May ease you of this trouble.
Gos. I will tell thee,
For a hundred thousand crowns upon my credit,
Taken up of Merchants to supply my traffiques,
The winds and weather envying of my fortune,
And no return to help me off, yet shewing
To morrow, Clause, to morrow, which must come,
In prison thou shalt find me poor and broken.