The Work’s begun, now I am made or lost;
He runs the best who holds out to the Post:
And all the Comfort in Adversity,
Is to see others as miserable as me.
Who have we here? Old Merryman! As I live ’tis he!
Enter Justice Merryman.
Mer. O Master Friendly, you’re happily returned: But where’s my Son-in-Law?
Fri. Alas, Sir, the unhappy Bonvile is——
Mer. Is, is, what is he? Heh! speak; is he living, or is he dead; or what’s become of him?
Fri. O! that I had the Marble Niobes Heart! Or that I had suck’d the Milk of Wolves and Tigers; so that I might have told, without the least remorse of Sorrow, what now I dare not, nay, I cannot speak, for fear at once I melt my self in Tears, and break your aged Heart.
[Seems to weep.
Mer. Then I suppose he’s killed; say, is he not? Hast thou inticed him from his Bride for this, thou inhumane Wretch? Yet speak, and tell me truly, for I’m prepared to hear the worst of Ills; Is he then slain?
Fri. No, Sir, but dangerously wounded.
Mer. Not mortally, I hope; but whereabouts is he so desperately wounded? In his Arms, his Legs, or Body?