Arden. Then that base Mosbie doth usurp my room
And makes his triumph of my being thence. 30
At home or not at home, where’er I be,
Here, here it lies, ah Franklin, here it lies
That will not out till wretched Arden dies.
Here enters Michael.
Franklin. Forget your griefs a while; here comes your man.
Arden. What a-clock is’t, sirrah?
Michael. Almost ten.
Arden. See, see, how runs away the weary time!
Come, Master Franklin, shall we go to bed?
[Exeunt Arden and Michael. Manet Franklin.
Franklin. I pray you, go before: I’ll follow you.
—Ah, what a hell is fretful jealousy! 40
What pity-moving words, what deep-fetched sighs,
What grievous groans and overlading woes
Accompanies this gentle gentleman!
Now will he shake his care-oppressèd head,
Then fix his sad eyes on the sullen earth,
Ashamed to gaze upon the open world;
Now will he cast his eyes up towards the heavens,
Looking that ways for redress of wrong:
Sometimes he seeketh to beguile his grief
And tells a story with his careful tongue; 50
Then comes his wife’s dishonour in his thoughts
And in the middle cutteth off his tale,
Pouring fresh sorrow on his weary limbs.
So woe-begone, so inly charged with woe,
Was never any lived and bare it so.
Here enters Michael.
Michael. My master would desire you come to bed.