O. Fos. Take your adoption with you, sir.
Rob. I crave but your blessing with me, sir.
O. Fos. 'Tis my curse then; get thee out of mine eye:
Thou art a beam in't, and I'll tear it out,
Ere it offend to look on thee.[92]
Mrs Fos. Go, go, sir; follow your uncle-father,
Help him to spend what thrift has got together;
It will be charity in you to spend,
Because your charity it was to lend.
Rob. My charity! you can a virtue name,
And teach the use, yet never knew the same. [Exit.
Enter Richard.
O. Fos. See, wife, here comes Richard; now listen,
And hear me crown'd the wealthiest London merchant.
Why dost thou look so sadly?
Mrs Fos. Why dost not speak? hast lost thy tongue?
Rich. I never could speak worse.