THE MAN.
I ask three hundred crowns. You have read there,
That no mere lapse of days can make me yours.
FIRST MERCHANT.
There is something more writ here—often at night
He is wakeful from a dread of growing poor.
There is this crack in you—two hundred crowns.
[THE MAN takes them and goes.
SECOND MERCHANT.
Come, deal—one would half think you had no souls.