Wil.  I will not sweare, but take my honest worde,
And so farewell.  My soule assureth me [Exit Merry and Rach. 
God will revenge this damn’d iniquitie. 
What shall become of me unhappie wretch? 
I dare not lodge within my Maisters house,
For feare his murthrous hand should kill me too. 
I will go walke and wander up and downe,
And seeke some rest, untill the day appeare. 
At the Three Cranes,[9] in some Haye loft ile lye,
And waile my maisters comming miserie.

[Exit.

[SCENE IV.]

Enter Fallerio solus.

Fall.  I have possession of my brothers goods;
His tennants pay me rent, acknowledge me
To be their Landlord; they frequent my house,
With Turkeys, Capons, Pigeons, Pigges and Geese,
And all to game my favour and goodwill. 
His plate, his iewels, hangings, household stuffe,
May well beseeme to fit a demie King;
His stately buildings, his delightfull walkes,
His fertile meadowes, and rich ploughed lands,
His well-growne woods and stor’d fishing ponds,
Brings endlesse wealth, besides continuall helpe,
To keepe a good and hospitable house: 
And shall I ioy these pleasures but a time? 
Nay brother, sister, all shall pardon me,
Before ile sell my selfe to penurie. 
The world doth know thy brother but resigned
The lands and goods untill his sonne attain’de
To riper years to weld [sic] and governe them. 
Then openly thou canst not do him wrong,
He living:  theres the burthen of the song. 
Call it a burthen, for it seemes so great
And heavie burthen, that the boy should live
And thrust me from this height of happinesse,
That I will not indure so heavie waight,
But shake it off, and live at libertie,
Free from the yoake of such subjection. 
The boy shall dye, were he my fathers sonne,
Before ile part with my possession. 
Ile call my sonne, and aske his good advice,
How I may best dispatch this serious cause.—­
Hoe, sir, Allenso!

Alle.  Father.

Fall.  Hearken, sonne. 
I must intreate your furtherance and advise
About a thing that doth concerne us neere. 
First tell me how thou doost affect in heart
Little Pertillo, thy dead Unckles sonne.

Allen.  So well, good father, that I cannot tell,
Whether I love him dearer then my selfe;
And yet if that my heart were calde to count,
I thinke it would surrender me to death,
Ere young Pertillo should sustain a wrong.

Fall.  How got his safetie such a deepe regarde Within your heart, that you affect it so?

Allen.  Nature gave roote; love, and the dying charge,
Of his dead father, gives such store of sap
Unto this tree of my affection
That it will never wither till I dye.

Fall.  But nature, love, and reason, tells thee thus, Thy selfe must yet be neerest to thyselfe.