Rich. Good sir, resolve not thus; return again,
Your debts are not so great that you should yield
Your body thus to prison unconstrain'd.
O. Fos. I will not trust the iron hearts of men;
My credit's lost, my wealth the sea has swallowed,
Wrack'd at my door, even in the mouth o' th' Thames;
O my misfortune! never man like me
Was so thrown down and cast to misery.
Rich. Dear sir, be patient!
O. Fos. I prythee, get thee gone,
And with thy diligence assist thy mistress
To keep that little left to help herself;
Whilst here in Ludgate I secure my body
From writs, arrests, and executions,
Which, well I know, my cruel creditors
Will thunder on me. Go, get thee gone!
If what is left they'll take, do thou agree;
If not, I am resolv'd here to stay and die.
Rich. I'll do my best, sir, to procure your peace. [Exit.
O. Fos. Do so. [To the Keeper.] Come, sir, I yield myself your prisoner:
You are the keeper of this Ludgate?
Keeper. Yes, sir;
Your name is register'd amongst the prisoners.
O. Fos. So!
I have seen the fair outside of this tomb before;
This goodly apple has a rotten core.
Keeper. As all prisons have, sir.
O. Fos. I prythee, bar me of no privilege
Due to a free citizen: thou knowest me well?