_Bev._ I know not what to think. This night has stung me to the
quick--blasted my reputation too. I have bound my honour to these
vipers; played meanly upon credit, till I tired them; and now they
shun me, to rifle one another. What's to be done?

_Stu._ Nothing. My counsels have been fatal.

_Bev._ By heaven! I'll not survive this shame--Traitor! 'tis You
have brought it on me. (_Taking hold of him._) Shew me the means to
save me, or I'll commit a murder here, and next upon myself.

_Stu._ Why, do it then, and rid me of ingratitude.

_Bev._ Prithee, forgive this language--I speak I know not what. Rage
and despair are in my heart, and hurry me to madness. My home is
horror to me--I'll not return to't. Speak quickly; tell me, if in
this wreck of fortune, one hope remains? Name it, and be my
oracle.

_Stu._ To vent your curses on--You have bestowed them liberally.
Take your own counsel: and should a desperate hope present itself,
'twill suit your desperate fortune. I'll not advise you.

_Bev._ What hope? By heaven! I'll catch at it, however desperate.
I am so sunk in misery, it cannot lay me lower.

_Stu._ You have an uncle.

_Bev._ Ay. What of Him?