<SPEECH 1><ACT 1><SCENE 2><20%>
<SERVANT 2>	<20%>
	May it please your honour, Lord Lucius,
	Out of his free love, hath presented to you
	Four milk-white horses, trapp'd in silver.
</SERVANT 2>

<SPEECH 2><ACT 4><SCENE 2><61%>
<SERVANT 2>	<61%>
	As we do turn our backs
	From our companion thrown into his grave,
	So his familiars to his buried fortunes
	Slink all away, leave their false vows with him,
	Like empty purses pick'd; and his poor self,
	A dedicated beggar to the air,
	With his disease of all-shunn'd poverty,
	Walks, like contempt, alone. More of our fellows.

</SERVANT 2>

