COBHAM.
Nay, nay, they know thee well enough. I think that all
the beggars in this land are thy acquaintance. Go bestow
your alms; none will control you, sir.
HARPOOLE.
What should I give them? you are grown so beggarly,
you have scarce a bit of bread to give at your door. You
talk of your religion so long, that you have banished
charity from amongst you; a man may make a flax shop
in your kitchen chimneys, for any fire there is stirring.
COBHAM.
If thou wilt give them nothing, send them hence: let
them not stand here starving in the cold.
HARPOOLE.
Who! I drive them hence? If I drive poor men from your
door, I'll be hanged; I know not what I may come to my
self. Yea, God help you, poor knaves; ye see the world,
yfaith! Well, you had a mother: well, God be with thee,
good Lady; thy soul's at rest. She gave more in shirts
and smocks to poor children, than you spend in your
house, & yet you live a beggar too.
COBHAM.
Even the worst deed that ere my mother did was in
relieving such a fool as thou.
HARPOOLE.
Yea, yea, I am a fool still. With all your wit you will
die a beggar; go too.
COBHAM.
Go, you old fool; give the poor people something. Go
in, poor men, into the inner court, and take such alms
as there is to be had.
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