Orla.
Who's there?

Adam.
What, my young master? Oh, my gentle master,
Oh, my sweet master, Oh, you memory
Of old Sir Rowland! Why, what make you here?
Why are you virtuous? Why do people love you?
And wherefore are you gentle, strong and valiant?
Why would you be so fond to overcome
The boney priser of the humouros duke?
Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
Know you not, master, to some kind of men,
Their graces serve them but as enemies?
No more do yours; your virtues, gentle master,
Are sanctified and holy traitors to you.
Oh, what a world is this, when what is comely,
Envenoms him that bears it!

Orla.
Why, what's the matter?

Adam.
Oh, unhappy youth,
Come not within these doors; within this roof,
The enemy of all your graces lives:
Your brother hath heard your praises,
And this night he means
To burn the lodging where you use to lie,
And you within it; if he fail of that,
He will have other means to cut you off.
I overheard him, and his practices.
This is no place, this house is but a butchery;
Abhor it, fear it, do not enter it.

Orla.
Why, whither, Adam, wouldst thou have me go?

Adam.
No matter whither, so you come not here.

Orla.
What, wouldst thou have me go and beg my food,
Or with a base and boisterous sword, enforce
A thievish living on the common road?
This I must do, or know not what to do:
Yet this I will not do, do how I can;
I rather will subject me to the malice
Of a diverted blood, and bloody brother.

Adam.
But do not so; I have five hundred crowns,
The thrifty hire I sav'd under your father,
Which I did store, to be my foster-nurse,
When service should in my old limbs lie lame,
And unregarded age in corners thrown;
Take that, and he that doth the ravens feed,
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow,
Be comfort to my age. Here is the gold,
All this I give you. Let me be your servant;
Tho' I look old, yet I am strong and lusty,
For in my youth, I never did apply
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood,
Nor did I with unbashful forehead woo
The means of weakness and debility:
Therefore, my age is as a lusty winter,
Frosty, but kindly. Let me go with you,
I'll do the service of a younger man,
In all your business and necessities.* ^note

Orla.
Oh, good old man, how well in thee appears
The constant service of the antique world;
When service sweat for duty, not for meed!† ^note
Thou art not for the fashion of these times,
Where none will sweat, but for promotion,
And having that, do choak their service up,
Even with the hazing. It is not so with thee:
But, poor old man, thou prun'st a rotten tree,

That cannot so much as a blossom yield,
In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.
But, come thy ways, we'll go along together,
And ere we have thy youthful wages spent,
We'll light upon some settled low content.

Adam.
Master go on, and I will follow thee,
To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.* ^note
From seventeen years, till now almost fourscore,
Here lived I, but now live here no more.
At seventeen years, many their fortunes seek,
But at fourscore, it is too late a week;
Yet fortune cannot recompence me better,
Than to die well, and not my master's debtor. [Exeunt.

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