O. Fos. How can I choose? Thou makest me mad:
For shame thou shouldst not make these white hairs sad:
Churl, beat not my poor boy; let him not lose
Thy love for my sake; I had rather bruise
My soul with torments for a thousand years,
Could I but live them, rather than salt tears
Thy malice draw from him: see, here's thy gold;
Tell it: none's stole. My woes can ne'er be told!
Rob. O misery! is nature quite forgot?
O. Fos. Choke with thy dunghill-muck! and vex me not.
Steph. No, keep it; he perhaps that money stole
To give it thee; for which, to vex thy soul,
I'll turn him forth of doors: make him thy heir,
Of jails, miseries, curses, and despair,
For here I disinherit him of all.
O. Fos. No matter; lands to him in heaven will fall.
Wife. Good husband.
Mrs Fos. Gentle brother.
Rob. Dear uncle.
Steph. I am deaf.
O. Fos. And damn'd; the devil's thumbs stop thine ears!