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._ Will no less serve?

_Gos._ What if it would?

_Ger._ Your patience,
I do not ask to mock ye: 'tis a great sum,
A sum for mighty men to start and stick at;