THOM.  For it shall cool.

SCAR.  To kill rather than be kill’d is manhood’s rule.

    Enter JOHN SCARBOROW.

JOHN.  Stay, let not your wraths meet.

THOM.  Heart! what mak’st thou here?

JOHN.  Say, who are you, or you? are you not one,
That scarce can make a fit distinction
Betwixt each other?  Are you not brothers?

THOM.  I renounce him.

SCAR.  Shalt not need.

THOM.  Give way.

SCAR.  Have at thee!

JOHN.  Who stirs? which of you both hath strength within his arm
To wound his own breast? who’s so desperate
To damn himself by killing of himself? 
Are you not both one flesh?

THOM.  Heart! give me way.

SCAR.  Be not a bar betwixt us, or by my sword
I’ll[423] mete thy grave out.

JOHN.  O, do:  for God’s sake, do;
’Tis happy death, if I may die, and you
Not murder one another.  O, do but hearken: 
When do the sun and moon, born in one frame,
Contend, but they breed earthquakes in men’s hearts? 
When any star prodigiously appears,
Tells it not fall of kings or fatal years? 
And then, if brothers fight, what may men think? 
Sin grows so high, ’tis time the world should sink.

SCAR.  My heart grows cool again; I wish it not.

THOM.  Stop not my fury, or by my life I swear. 
I will reveal the robbery we have done,
And take revenge on thee,
That hinders me to take revenge on him.

JOHN.  I yield to that; but ne’er consent to this,
I shall then die, as mine own sin affords,
Fall by the law, not by my brothers’ swords.

THOM.  Then, by that light that guides me here, I vow,
I’ll straight to Sir John Harcop, and make known
We were the two that robb’d him.

JOHN.  Prythee, do.

THOM.  Sin has his shame, and thou shalt have thy due.
          
                                    [Exit.

JOHN.  Thus have I shown the nature of a brother,
Though you have proved unnatural to me. 
He’s gone in heat to publish out the theft,
Which want and your unkindness forc’d us to: 
If now I die, that death and public shame
Is a corsive to your soul, blot to your name.
                                      [Exit.

SCAR.  O, ’tis too true, there’s not a thought I think,
But must partake thy grief, and drink
A relish of thy sorrow and misfortune. 
With weight of others’ tears I am o’erborne,
That scarce am Atlas to hold up mine own,
And all too good for me.  A happy creature
In my cradle, and I have made myself
The common curse of mankind by my life;
Undone my brothers, made them thieves for bread,
And begot pretty children to live beggars. 
O conscience, how thou art stung to think upon’t! 
My brothers unto shame must yield their blood: 
My babes at others’ stirrups beg their food,