AGATHA. You will turn a poor sick woman out of doors who has spent her
last farthing in your house.

LANDLORD. For that very reason; because she _has_ spent her last
farthing.

AGATHA. I can work.

LANDLORD. You can hardly move your hands.

AGATHA. My strength will come again.

LANDLORD. Then _you_ may come again.

AGATHA. What am I to do? Where shall I go?

LANDLORD. It is fine weather--you may go any where.

AGATHA. Who will give me a morsel of bread to satisfy my hunger?

LANDLORD. Sick people eat but little.

AGATHA. Hard, unfeeling man, have pity.

LANDLORD. When times are hard, pity is too expensive for a poor man.
Ask alms of the different people that go by.

AGATHA. Beg! I would rather starve.