Jam.

     Is’t possible?

     Asc.

     The Lady, whom my Father calls his Wife,
     Abhors my sight, is sick of me, and forc’d him
     To turn me out of doors.

     Jac.

     By my best hopes
     I thank her cruelty, for it comes near
     A saving Charity.

     Asc.

     I am only happy
     That yet I can relieve you, ’pray you share: 
     My Father’s wondrous kind, and promises
     That I should be supplied:  but sure the Lady
     Is a malicious Woman, and I fear
     Means me no good.

     Enter Servant.

     Jam.

     I am turn’d a stone with wonder,
     And know not what to think.

     Ser.

     From my Lady,
     Your private ear, and this—­

     Jam.

New Miracles?

Ser.

She says, if you dare make your self a Fortune,
She will propose the means; my Lord Don Henrique
Is now from home, and she alone expects you,
If you dare trust her, so, if not despair of
A second offer.

[Exit.

Jam.

Though there were an Ambush
Laid for my life, I’le on and sound this secret. 
Retire thee, my Ascanio, with thy Mother: 
But stir not forth, some great design’s on foot,
Fall what can fall, if e’re the Sun be set
I see you not, give me for dead.

     Asc.

     We will expect you,
     And those bless’d Angels, that love goodness, guard you.

[Exeunt.

     SCENA V.

     Enter Lopez and Bartolus.

     Bar.

     Is’t possible he should be rich?

     Lop.

     Most possible,
     He hath been long, though he had but little gettings,
     Drawing together, Sir.

     Bar.

     Accounted a poor Sexton,
     Honest poor Diego.

     Lop.

     I assure ye, a close Fellow,
     Both close, and scraping, and that fills the Bags, Sir.

     Bar.

     A notable good fellow too?

     Lop.

     Sometimes, Sir,
     When he hop’d to drink a man into a Surfeit,
     That he might gain by his Grave.

     Bar.

     So many thousands?

     Lop.

     Heaven knows what.

     Bar.

     ’Tis strange,
     ’Tis very strange; but we see by endeavour,
     And honest labour—­

     Lop.

Milo, by continuance Grew from a silly Calf (with your worships reverence) To carry a Bull, from a penny, to a pound, Sir, And from a pound, to many:  ’tis the progress.

     Bar.