Rut. Why do you grieve thus still ? Arn. 'Twould melt a Marble, And tame a Savage man, to feel my fortune. Rut. What fortune ? I have liv'd this thirty years, And run through all these follies you call fortunes, Yet never fixt on any good and constant, But what I made myself: why should I grieve then At that I may mould any way ? Arn. You are wide still. Rut...