Rob. To support a weak house falling to decay.
Wife. 'Tis well if you can do't, and that the timber
You underprop it with be all your own.
Hark, coz, where's your uncle's money?
Rob. Faith, aunt, 'tis gone;
But not at dice nor drabbing.
Wife. Sir, I believe,
With your uncle's gold your father you relieve.
Rob. You are sav'd, believing so: your belief's true.
Wife. You cut large thongs of that's another's due,
And you will answer't ill. Now, in good troth,
I laugh at this jest: much good do them both:
My wager I had won, had I but laid. [Aside.
O. Fos. What has my poor boy done, that you have made
So much blood rise in's cheeks?
Wife. Nothing, dear brother;
Indeed all's well: the course that he has run
I like and love; let him hold on the same;
A son's love to a father none can blame:
I will not leave your brother's iron heart,
Till I have beat it soft with my entreats.
O. Fos. 'Twill ne'er be music, 'tis so full of frets.
Wife. Frets make best music: strings the higher rack'd
Sound sweetest.