SCENE II.

_Enter_ Antonio, _a Surgeon, and 2 Gentlemen_.

_1 Gent._ Come, Sir, be hearty, all the worst is past.

_Ant._ Give me some Wine.

_Sur._ 'Tis death, Sir.

_Ant._ 'Tis a Horse, Sir. To be drest to the tune of Ale only! Nothing but sawces to my sores!

_2 Gent._ Fie, _Antonio_, You must be govern'd.

_Ant._ H'as given me a damn'd Clyster, Only of sand and snow water, Gentlemen, Has almost scour'd my guts out.

_Sur._ I have giv'n you that, Sir, Is fittest for your state.

_Ant._ And here he feeds me With rotten ends of Rooks, and drown'd Chickens, Stew'd Pericraniums, and Pia-maters; And when I go to bed (by Heaven 'tis true Gentlemen) He rolls me up in Lints, with Labels at 'em, That I am just the man i'th' Almanack, In Head and Face, is _Aries_ place.

_Sur._ Will't please ye To let your friends see you open'd?

_Ant._ Will't please you, Sir, To let me have a wench? I feel my Body Open enough for that yet.

_Sur._ How, a Wench?

_Ant._ Why look ye, Gentlemen; thus I am us'd still, I can get nothing that I want.

_1 Gent._ Leave these things, And let him open ye.

_Ant._ D'ye hear, Surgeon? Send for the Musick, let me have some pleasure To entertain my friends, besides your Sallads, Your green salves, and your searches, and some Wine too, That I may only smell to it; or by this light I'll dye upon thy hand, and spoil thy custome.

_1 Gent._ Let him have Musick.

_Enter Rowl. with Wine._

_Sur._ 'Tis in the house, and ready, If he will ask no more but Wine-- [_Musick._

_2 Gent._ He shall not drink it.

_Sur._ Will these things please ye?

_Ant._ Yes, and let 'em sing _John Dorrie_.

_2 Gent._ 'Tis too long.

_Ant._ I'll have _John Dorrie_, For to that warlike tune I will be open'd: Give me some drink, have ye stopt the leaks well, Surgeon, All will run out else?

_Surg._ Fear not.

_Ant._ Sit down, Gentlemen: And now advance your Plaisters. [_Song of_ John Dorrie. Give 'em ten shillings, friends; how do ye find me? What symptoms do you see now?

_Surg._ None, Sir, dangerous; But if you will be rul'd--

_Ant._ What time?

_Surg._ I can cure you In forty days, if you will not transgress me.

_Ant._ I have a Dog shall lick me whole in twenty; In how long canst thou kill me?

_Surg._ Presently.

_Ant._ Do it, there's more delight in't.

_1 Gent._ You must have patience.

_Ant._ Man, I must have business; this foolish fellow Hinders himself; I have a dozen Rascals To hurt within these five days; good man-mender, Stop me with some Parsley, like stuft Beef, And let me walk abroad.

_Surg._ Ye shall walk shortly.

_Ant._ For I must find _Petrucchio_.

_2 Gent._ Time enough.

_1 Gent._ Come, lead him in, and let him sleep: within these three days We'll beg ye leave to play.

_2 Gent._ And then how things fall, We'll certainly inform ye.

_Ant._ But Surgeon, promise me I shall drink Wine then too.

_Surg._ A little temper'd.

_Ant._ Nay, I'll no tempering, Surgeon.

_Surg._ Well, as't please ye, So ye exceed not.

_Ant._ Farewell: and if ye find The mad Slave that thus slash'd me, commend me to him, And bid him keep his Skin close.

_1 Gent._ Take your rest, Sir. [_Exeunt._