O. Fos. Hang thee, hang thee!
Mrs Fos. Husband!
O. Fos. Destruction meet thee! Turn the key there, ho!
Rob. Good sir, I'm gone; I will not stay to grieve you.
O, knew you for your woes what pains I feel,
You would not scorn me so. See, sir, to cool
Your heat of burning sorrow, I have got
Two hundred pounds, and glad it is my lot
To lay it down with reverence at your feet;
No comfort in the world to me is sweet,
Whilst thus you live in moan.
O. Fos. Stay!
Rob. Good troth, sir, I'll have none on't back,
Could but one penny of it save my life.
Mrs Fos. Yet stay and hear him. O unnatural strife
In a hard father's bosom!
O. Fos. I see mine error now. O, can there grow
A rose upon a bramble? Did there e'er flow
Poison and health together in one tide?
I'm born a man: reason may step aside,
And lead a father's love out of the way:
Forgive me, my good boy, I went astray:
Look, on my knees I beg it—not for joy
Thou bring'st this golden rubbish, which I spurn;
But glad in this, the heavens mine eyeballs turn,
And fix them right to look upon that face,
Where love remains with pity, duty, grace.
O my dear wronged boy!
Rob. Gladness o'erwhelms my heart!
With joy I cannot speak!
Mrs Fos. Crosses of this foolish world
Did never grieve my heart with torments more,
Than it is now grown light
With joy and comfort of this happy sight.