t he's going to: Better still.

_The Work's begun, now I am made or lost;
He runs the best who holds out to the Post:
And all the Comfort in Adversity,
Is to see others as miserable as me._

Who have we here? Old _Merryman_! As I live 'tis he!

_Enter Justice_ Merryman.

_Mer._ O Master _Friendly,_ you're happily returned: But where's my
Son-in-Law?

_Fri._ Alas, Sir, the unhappy _Bonvile_ is----

_Mer._ Is, is, what is he? Heh! speak; is he living, or is he dead; or
what's become of him?

_Fri._ O! that I had the Marble _Niobes_ Heart! Or that I had suck'd the
Milk of Wolves and Tigers; so that I might have told, without the least
remorse of Sorrow, what now I dare not, nay, I cannot speak, for fear at
once I melt my self in Tears, and break your aged Heart.

[_Seems to weep._

_Mer._ Then I suppose he's killed; say, is he not? Hast thou inticed him
from his Bride for this, thou inhumane Wretch? Yet speak, and tell me
truly, for I'm prepared to hear the worst of Ills; Is he then slain?

_Fri._ No, Sir, but dangerously wounded.

_Mer._ Not mortally, I hope; but whereabouts is he so desperately
wounded? In his Arms, his Legs, or Body?

_Fri._ Neither, Sir, but in as perfect Health as when he left you.

_Mer._ Strange! sure thou art all o're a Mystery, and form'st these
Riddles to try my Wit.

_Fri._ No, Sir, for all I have said, you in effect will surely find I
told you he was wounded, did I not?

_Mer._ Yes, you did.

_Fri._ And so he is.

_Mer._ But where, whereabout, I ask you once again?

_Fri._ I see you force the unwilling Secret from me--Why, he's wounded.

_Mer._ He's wounded, he's wounded, but where, where is he wounded?

_Fri._ In his Fame, Honour and Reputation, more mortal than a thousand
fleshy Wounds.

_For such slight Baubles, Cures are oft obtain'd;
But injur'd Honour ne're can be regain'd._

_Mer._ How! how! how's this? wounded in his Honour, fay'll thou? Tell me
the Villain that has defam'd him, and this good old Sword shall slit the
Rascal's Wind-pipe.

_Fri._ O, Sir, your Daughter, your Daughter, Sir----

_Mer._ Ha! what's that? what's that? is she injur'd too?

_Fri._ No, no Sir, my falling Tears quite drown my feeble Voice, I
cannot utter what I fain would speak--Your Daughter's false, false to
her _Bonvile_! And by the help of her beloved _Summerfield_, has robb'd
my Friend of all he cou'd call Dear, I mean his Fame.

[_Seems to weep._

_