_Arth._ And how was he buried?

_Will._ About the setting of the sun, when he had
no more to give. I saw none in the garb of
mourning, though many wore long faces, because their gain
was stopped.

_Arth._ And what wrote they on his tomb?

_Will._ Other names than his own. Extravagance,
folly, imprudence, were the best terms there. One
whom he had released from gaol, carved madness with
a flint stone. There was but one would have painted
his true name, but his tears defaced it--a humble
dependent, who had been faithful to him, but whom
he regarded not, being accustomed to his services.

_Arth._ Out! rogue! I have humoured thee too
long, leave thy rascal allegory. Hast seen my brother?

_Will._ Ay, and thy cousin. She is a rare girl, and
remembereth thee well. Thy brother is not attached
to thee. He will give thee five hundred pounds if
thou wilt swear to quit England for ever. He abuseth
thee finely, saith thou art a debauched vagabond,
which is an insult to me thy serving companion,
whom he threatened with the stocks. Wilt thou not
slay him?

_Arth._ O monstrous! Can it be? Fool that I