What wouldst thou have, good fellow?
Painter.
Justice, madam.
Hieronimo.
O ambitious beggar, wouldst thou have that,
That lives not in the world?
Why, all the undelved mines cannot buy
An ounce of justice, 'tis a jewel so
Inestimable. I tell thee, God hath
Engrossed all justice in his hands,
And there is none but what comes from him.
Painter.
O, then I see that God must right me for my
Murder'd son.
Hieronimo.
How? was thy son murder'd?
Painter.