Go to thy father, think not upon him,
Whom hell hath marked to be the son of shame.
LUCY.
Impute his wildness, sir, unto his youth,
And think that now is the time he doth repent:
Alas, what good or gain can you receive,
To imprison him that nothing hath to pay?
And where nought is, the king doth lose his due;
O, pity him, as God shall pity you.
UNCLE.
Lady, I know his humours all too well,
And nothing in the world can do him good,
But misery it self to chain him with.
LUCY.
Say that your debts were paid, then is he free?
UNCLE.
Aye, virgin, that being answered, I have done,
But to him that is all as impossible,
As I to scale the high Pyramids.
Sheriff, take your prisoner: Maiden, fare thee well.
LUCY.
O go not yet, good Master Flowerdale:
Take my word for the debt, my word, my bond.
FLOWERDALE.
Aye, by God, Uncle, and my bond too.
LUCY.
Alas, I ne'er ought nothing but I paid it,
And I can work; alas, he can do nothing:
I have some friends perhaps will pity me,
His chiefest friends do seek his misery.
All that I can or beg, get, or receive,
Shall be for you: O do not turn away;
Methinks, within, a face so reverent,
So well experienced in this tottering world,
Should have some feeling of a maiden's grief:
For my sake, his father's, and your brother's sake,
Aye, for your soul's sake that doth hope for joy,
Pity my state: do not two souls destroy.
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