JOHN.  O, but, brother—­

THOM.  Persuade me not. 
All hopes are shipwreck’d, misery comes on,
The comfort we did look from him is frustrate,
All means, all maintenance, but grief is gone;
And all shall end by his destruction. [Exit.

JOHN.  I’ll follow, and prevent what in this heat may happen: 
His want makes sharp his sword; too great’s the ill,
If that one brother should another kill. [Exit.

BUT.  And what will you do, mistress?

SIS.  I’ll sit me down, sigh loud instead of words,
And wound myself with grief as they with swords. 
And for the sustenance that I should eat,
I’ll feed on grief, ’tis woe’s best-relish’d meat.

BUT.  Good heart, I pity you,
You shall not be so cruel to yourself,
I have the poor serving-man’s allowance: 
Twelve pence a day, to buy me sustenance;
One meal a day I’ll eat, the t’other fast,
To give your wants relief.  And, mistress,
Be this some comfort to your miseries,
I’ll have thin cheeks, ere you shall have wet eyes.

[Exeunt.

Enter SCARBOROW.

SCAR.  What is a prodigal?  Faith, like a brush,
That wears himself to furbish[418] others’ clothes,
And, having worn his heart even to the stump,
He’s thrown away like a deformed lump. 
O, such am I:  I have spent all the wealth
My ancestors did purchase, made others brave
In shape and riches, and myself a knave. 
For though my wealth rais’d some to paint their door,
’Tis shut against me saying I am but poor: 
Nay, even the greatest arm, whose hand hath grac’d
My presence to the eye of majesty, shrinks back,
His fingers clutch, and like to lead,
They are heavy to raise up my state, being dead. 
By which I find spendthrifts (and such am I)
Like strumpets flourish, but are foul within,
And they (like snakes) know when to cast their skin.

    Enter THOMAS SCARBOROW.

THOM.  Turn, draw, and die; I come to kill thee.

SCAR.  What’s he that speaks like sickness?  O, is’t you? 
Sleep still, you cannot move me:  fare you well.

THOM.  Think not my fury slakes so, or my blood
Can cool itself to temper by refusal: 
Turn, or thou diest.

SCAR.  Away.

THOM.  I do not wish to kill thee like a slave,
That taps men in their cups, and broach[es] their hearts,
Ere with a warning-piece they have wak’d their ears;
I would not like to powder shoot thee down
To a flat grave, ere thou hast thought to frown: 
I am no coward, but in manly terms
And fairest oppositions vow to kill thee.

SCAR.  From whence proceeds this heat?

THOM.  From sparkles bred
By thee, that like a villain—­

SCAR.  Ha!

THOM.  I’ll hollow it
In thine ears, till thy soul quake to hear it,
That like a villain hast undone thy brothers.