He's grown a stranger to all due respect,
Forgetful of his friends; and not content
To stale himself in all societies,
He makes my house here common as a mart,
A theatre, a public receptacle
For giddy humour, and deceased riot;
And here, as in a tavern or a stews,
He and his wild associates spend their hours,
In repetition of lascivious jests,
Swear, leap, drink, dance, and revel night by night,
Control my servants; and, indeed, what not?
Dow. 'Sdeins, I know not what I should say to him, in the whole
world! He values me at a crack'd three-farthings, for aught I see.
It will never out of the flesh that's bred in the bone. I have
told him enough, one would think, if that would serve; but counsel
to him is as good as a shoulder of mutton to a sick horse. Well!
he knows what to trust to, for George: let him spend, and spend,
and domineer, till his heart ake; an he think to be relieved by
me, when he is got into one O' your city pounds, the counters, he
has the wrong sow by the ear, i'faith; and claps his dish at the
wrong man's door: I'll lay my hand on my halfpenny, ere I part
with it to fetch him out, I'll assure him.'
Kit. Nay, good brother, let it not trouble you thus.
Dow. 'Sdeath! he mads me; I could eat my very spur leathers for
anger! But, why are you so tame? why do you not speak to him, and
tell him how he disquiets your house?
Kit.
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