O. Fos. O wife, my losses are as numberless
As the sea-sands that swallowed them! And shall I,
In reckoning them, my sad griefs multiply?
Mrs Fos. You may, sir;
But your dim eyes so thick with tears do run,
You cannot see from whence your comforts come:
Besides, your debts being truly counted
Cannot be great.
O. Fos. But all my wealth and state lies in the sea's bottom.
Mrs Fos. It again may rise.
O. Fos. O, never!
Mrs Fos. Good sir, so hope, for I from heaven espy
An arm to pluck you from this misery.
Enter Keeper.
Keeper. Sir, there's one without desires to speak with you.
O. Fos. Go, send him in. [Exit Keeper.] None comes to do me good,
My wealth is lost, now let them take my blood.
Enter Robert.