O. Fos. O, let my shame my bosom's centre break!
Love is so young, it coys, but cannot speak.
King. You bless mine eyes with objects that become
The theatre of kings to look upon.
Steph. The keeper is discharg'd, sir; your debts are paid,
And from the prison you're a free man made:
There's not a creditor can ask you ought.
As your son did for me, so have I bought
Your liberty with mine; and to increase it more,
Because I know bare liberty is poor
Without assistance: to raise your state again,
The thirds of mine are yours, [To Wife] say you
amen?
Wife. No, not to that, you are kind brothers now,
Divide by halves that love, and I'll allow.
Steph. Thou art only wise in virtue; as thou sett'st down,
So let it be. Half my estate's your own.
O. Fos. It whole redounds again, for I am yours;
Forget this minute my forgetful hours.
Steph. O, they are buried all, sir!
King. This union's good;
Such league should ever be in brotherhood.
Steph. Yet without boast, my liege, let me relate
One small thing more—remorse of my own state,
And my dear brother's worse succession:
For that we both have prisoners been in one
Selfsame place of woe, and felt those throes,
That Ludgate yields: my charity bestows
Some alms of comfort: keeper, you can speak it.
Keep. And many hundred more, sir: you have re-edified
And built it fair, adding more ground to it,
And by pipes of lead from Paddington, drawn
Water thither free for all prisoners: lodgings
Likewise free, and a hundred pounds yearly, to make
Them fires for better comfort: all this is almost finish'd.