SCAR.  Would thou wert not so near me! yet, farewell.

THOM.  By Nature and her laws make[419] us akin—­
As near as are these hands, or sin to sin—­
Draw and defend thyself, or I’ll forget
Thou art a man.

SCAR.  Would thou wert not my brother!

THOM.  I disclaim thee[420].

SCAR.  Are we not offspring of one parent, wretch?

THOM.  I do forget it; pardon me the dead,
I should deny the pains you bid for me. 
My blood grows hot for vengeance, thou hast spent
My life’s revenues, that our parents purchas’d.

SCAR.  O, do not rack me with remembrance on’t.

THOM.  Thou hast made my life a beggar in this world,
And I will make thee bankrupt of thy breath: 
Thou hast been so bad, the best that I can give[421]. 
Thou art a devil:  not with men to live.

SCAR.  Then take a devil’s payment

    Here they make a pass one upon another, when at Scarborow’s
    back come in ILFORD, WENTLOE, and BARTLEY.

ILF.  He’s here; draw, gentlemen.

WEN., BART.  Die, Scarborow.

SCAR.  Girt round with death!

THOM.  How, set upon by three!  ’Sfoot, fear not, brother; you cowards, three to one! slaves, worse than fencers that wear long weapons.  You shall be fought withal, you shall be fought withal.

    [Here the brothers join, drive the rest out, and return.

SCAR.  Brother, I thank you, for you now have been
A patron of my life.  Forget the sin,
I pray you, which my loose and wasteful hours
Hath made against your fortunes; I repent ’em,
And wish I could new-joint and strength your hopes,
Though with indifferent ruin of mine own. 
I have a many sins, the thought of which
Like finest[422] needles prick me to the soul,
But find your wrongs to have the sharpest point. 
If penitence your losses might repair,
You should be rich in wealth, and I in care.

THOM.  I do believe you, sir:  but I must tell you,
Evils the which are ’gainst another done,
Repentance makes no satisfaction
To him that feels the smart.  Our father, sir,
Left in your trust my portion:  you have spent it,
And suffered me (whilst you in riot’s house—­
A drunken tavern—­spill’d my maintenance,
Perhaps upon the ground with o’erflown cups;)
Like birds in hardest winter half-starv’d, to fly
And pick up any food, lest I should die.

SCAR.  I pr’ythee, let us be at peace together.

THOM.  At peace for what?  For spending my inheritance? 
By yonder sun that every soul has life by,
As sure as thou hast life, I’ll fight with thee.

SCAR.  I’ll not be mov’d unto’t.

THOM.  I’ll kill thee then, wert thou now clasp’d
Within thy mother, wife, or children’s arms.

SCAR.  Would’st, homicide? art so degenerate? 
Then let my blood grow hot.