KATH. I thank thee, butler; heaven, when he please,
Send death unto the troubled—a blest ease.
[Exit with children.
BUT. In troth I know not, if it be good or ill,
That with this endless toil I labour thus:
'Tis but the old time's ancient conscience
That would do no man hurt, that makes me do't:
If it be sin, that I do pity these,
If it be sin, I have relieved his brothers,
Have played the thief with them to get their food,
And made a luckless marriage for his sister,
Intended for her good, heaven pardon me.
But if so, I am sure they are great sinners,
That made this match, and were unhappy[432] men;
For they caus'd all, and may heaven pardon them.
Enter SIR WILLIAM SCARBOROW.
SIR WIL. Who's within here?
BUT. Sir William, kindly welcome.
SIR WIL. Where is my kinsman Scarborow?
BUT. Sooth, he's within, sir, but not very well.
SIR WIL. His sickness?
BUT. The hell of sickness; troubled in his mind.