_Gos._ How?
_Ger._ I dare not leave ye, Sir, I must not leave ye,
And till ye beat me dead, I will not leave ye.
By what ye hold most precious, by Heavens goodness,
As your fair youth may prosper, good Sir tell me:
My mind believes yet something's in my power
May ease you of this trouble.
_Gos._ I will tell thee,
For a hundred thousand crowns upon my credit,
Taken up of Merchants to supply my traffiques,
The winds and weather envying of my fortune,
And no return to help me off, yet shewing
To morrow, _Clause_, to morrow, which must come,
In prison thou shalt find me poor and broken.
_Ger._ I cannot blame your grief Sir.
_Gos._ Now, what say'st thou?
_Ger._ I say you should not shrink, for he that gave ye,
Can give you more; his power can bring ye off Sir,
When friends and all forsake ye, yet he sees you.
_Gos._ There's all my hope.
_Ger._ Hope still Sir, are you ty'd
Within the compass of a day, good Master,
To pay this mass of mony?
_Gos._ Ev'n to morrow:
But why do I stand mocking of my misery?
Is't not enough the floods, and friends forget me?
_Ger.
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