Longa. Thy voice is spent in vain; come, come, this purse,
This well-spring of your prodigality.
Andel. Are you appointed by the king to this?
Montr. No, no; rise, spurn him up! know you who’s this?
Andel. My brother Ampedo? Alas, what fate
Hath made thy virtues so unfortunate?
Amp. Thy riot and the wrong of these two lords,
Who causeless thus do starve[408] me in this prison.
Longa. Strive not y’are best, villains, lift in his legs.
Andel. Traitors to honour, what do you intend?
Longa. That riot shall in wretchedness have end.
Question thy brother with what cost he’s fed,
And so assure thou shall be banqueted. [Exeunt Longaville and Montrose.
Amp. In want, in misery, in woe and care,
Poor Ampedo his fill hath surfeited:
My want is famine, bolts my misery,
My care and woe should be thy portion.
Andel. Give me that portion, for I have a heart
Shall spend it freely, and make bankrupt
The proudest woe that ever wet man’s eyes.
Care, with a mischief! wherefore should I care?
Have I rid side by side by mighty kings,
Yet be thus bridled now? I’ll tear these fetters,
Murder! cry, murder! Ampedo, aloud.
To bear this scorn our fortunes are too proud.