Eug. But think upon the deed,
Think on your own decrepit age, and know
That day, by nature's possibility,
Cannot be far from hence, when you must leave
Those wealthy hoards that you so basely lov'd,
And carry nothing with thee, but the guilt
Of impious getting: then, if you would give
To pious uses what you cannot keep,
Think what a wretched charity it is;
And know, this act shall leave a greater stain
On your detested memory, than all
Those seeming deeds of charity can have
A pow'r to wash away: when men shall say
In the next age: this goodly hospital,
This house of alms, this school, though seeming fair,
Was the foul issue of a cursed murder,
And took foundation in a kinsman's blood.
The privilege that rich men have in evil,
Is, that they go unpunish'd to the devil.
Sir Arg. O! I could wish the deed undone again.
Ah me! what means are left to help it now?
Free. Sure, the old man begins to melt indeed.
Eug. Now let me turn to you, my truer friends,
And take my last farewell.
Enter Fruitful and Trusty.
Euph. My noble chaplain!
What pranks comes he to play now? I had thought
His business had been done.
Fruit. Health to you, madam!
Lady C. How can you wish me health, that have so labour'd
To ruin me in all things?
Fruit. No, good madam;
'Twas not your ruin, but your good I sought:
Nor was it to deprive you of your means,
But only rectify your conscience.
Free. How's this?