Hear. Speak for our credit, my brave man of war.
What, Meanwell, why so lumpish?
Mean. Pray you, be quiet.
Hear. Thou look'st as if thou plott'st the calling in
O' th' Declaration, or the abolishing[116]
O' th' common prayers. Cheer up; say something for us.
Mean. Pray, vex me not.
Slicer. These foolish, puling sighs
Are good for nothing, but to endanger buttons.
Take heart of grace, man.[117]
Mean. Fie, y' are troublesome!
Hear. Nay, fare you well then, sir.
[Exeunt Hearsay, Slicer, Shape.
Mean. My father still
Runs in my mind, meets all my thoughts, and doth
Mingle himself in all my cogitations.
Thus to see eager villains drag along
Him unto whom they crouch'd! to see him hal'd,
That ne'er knew what compulsion was, but when
His virtues did incite him to good deeds,
And keep my sword dry! O unequal nature!
Why was I made so patient as to view,
And not so strong as to redeem? Why should I
Dare to behold, and yet not dare to rescue?
Had I been destitute of weapons, yet
Arm'd with the only name of son, I might
Have outdone wonder. Naked piety
Dares more than fury well-appointed[118]; blood
Being never better sacrificed, than when
It flows to him that gave it. But, alas!
The envy of my fortune did allow
That only which she could not take away—
Compassion, that which was not in those savage
And knowing beasts, those engines of the law
That even killed as uncontroll'd as that.
How do I grieve when I consider from
What hands he suffer'd! Hands that do excuse
Th' indulgent prison, shackles being here
A kind of rescue. Young man, 'tis not well
To see thy aged father thus confin'd.
Good, good old man! alas! thou'rt dead to me,
Dead to the world, and only living to
That which is more than death, thy misery!
The grave could be a comfort: and shall I—
O, would this soul of mine—But death's the wish
Of him that fears; he's lazy that would die.
I'll live and see that thing of wealth, that worm
Bred out of splendid muck, that citizen,
Like his own sullied wares thrown by into
Some unregarded corner; and my piety
Shall be as famous as his avarice.
His son, whom we have in our tuition,
Shall be the subject of my good revenge:
I'll count myself no child, till I have done
Something that's worth that name. My brain shall be
Busy in his undoing; and I will
Plot ruin with religion: his disgrace
Shall be my zeal's contrivement; and when this
Shall style me son again, I hope 'twill be
Counted not wrong, but duty. When that time
Shall give my actions growth, I will cast off
This brood of vipers, and will show that I
Do hate the poison which I meant t' apply. [Exit.