O. Fos. Why, thy voice is good enough.
Rich. But the worst accent that ever you heard;
I speak a screech-owl's note. O, you have made
The most unhappiest bargain that ever merchant did!
O. Fos. Ha?
What can so baleful be, as thou wouldst seem
To make by this sad prologue? I am no traitor,
To confiscate my goods: speak, whate'er it be.
Rich. I would you could conceit it, that I might
Not speak it.
O. Fos. Dally not with torments,
Sink me at once.
Rich. Now you've spoke it half;
'Tis sinking I must treat of: your ships are all sunk.
O. Fos. Ha!
Mrs Fos. O thou fatal raven! let me pull thine eyes out
For this sad croak. [Flies at Richard.
O. Fos. Hold, woman! hold, prythee! 'tis none of his fault.
Mrs Fos. No, no, 'tis thine, thou wretch; and therefore
Let me turn my vengeance all on thee; thou
Hast made hot haste to empty all my warehouses,
And made room for that the sea hath drunk before thee.