HUSBAND.
Oh god! oh!
MASTER. Wise men think ill of you, others speak ill of you, no man loves you, nay, even those whom honesty condemns, condemn you: and take this from the vertuous affection I bear your brother; never look for prosperous hour, good thought, quiet sleeps, contented walks, nor any thing that makes man perfect til you redeem him. What is your answer? how will you bestow him? upon desperate misery, or better hopes? I suffer, till I have your answer.
HUSBAND. Sir, you have much wrought with me. I feel you in my soul, you are your arts master. I never had sense til now; your syllables have cleft me. Both for your words and pains I thank you: I cannot but acknowledge grievous wrongs done to my brother, mighty, mighty, mighty wrongs.—Within there!
[Enter a servingman.]
HUSBAND.
Sir, Fill me a bowl of wine. Alas, poor brother,
Brus’d with an execution for my sake.
[Exit servant for wine.]
MASTER.
A bruse indeed makes many a moral sore
Till the grave cure em.
[Enter with wine.]
HUSBAND.
Sir, I begin to you, y’ave chide your welcome.
MASTER.
I could have wisht it better for your sake.
I pledge you, sir, to the kind man in prison.