RUT

That It is a main one! how much is the portion? He should be forced, Madam, to lay it down. When is it payable? Get her married. Lose not a day, and hour— Now, Mr. Compass Is a fine witty man; I saw him go in, now. Some new Suitor, Madam. Troth, and the other cares not. Hee'll go his own way, if he think it right. Not of that ear: But yet your Ladyship does wisely in it— A fine Gentleman. Old Mr. Silkworms Heir. Who's this? Not very well; she cannot shoot at Buts. Or manage a great Horse, but she can cranch A sack of small coal! eat you lime, and hair, Soap-ashes, Loam, and has a dainty spice OF the green sickness! Or the Dropsy! A toy, a thing of nothing. But my Lady, here Her noble Aunt. Well, if you know it, peace. Sure she is not long lived, if she spend breath thus. I sure thought She had a Lease of talking, for nine lives— Oh he knows her, It seems! The Armenians? Out, out. Stint Karlin: I'll not hear, Confute her Parson. Death, she cannot speak reason. He is no Suitor then? And he hath fitted well the Compliment. It is much in little, Sir. Whence? what's he called? Peace Tiffany. Leavened? what's that? What! Dark, by darker? What is blown? puffed? speak English— Give her vent, If she do swell. A Gimblet must be had: It is a Tympanites she is troubled with; There are three kinds: The first is Ana-sarca Under the Flesh, a Tumor: that's not hers. The second is Ascites, or Aquosus, A watery humour: that's not hers neither. But Tympanites (which we call the Drum) A wind bombs in her belly, must be unbraced, And with a Faucet, or a Peg, let out, And she'll do well: get her a husband. Yes, and Gleek too; peace Gossip Tittle-Tattle, She must to morrow, down into the Country, Some twenty mile; A Coach, and six brave Horses: Take the fresh air, a month there, or five weeks: And then return a Bride, up to the Town, For any husband i'the Hemisphere, To chuck at; when she has dropped her Timpane. Thence, it's called a Dropsy. The Timpanites is one spice of it; A toy, a thing of nothing, a mere vapour: I'll blow't away. And she bringing So plentiful a portion, they may live Like King, and Queen, at common Law together! Sway Judges; guide the Courts; command the Clerks, And fright the Evidence; rule at their pleasures, Like petty Sovereigns in all cases. You say well, Ladies Gossip; if my Lady Could admit that, to have her Niece precede her. Nor I. A most rude Actium! carry her to her bed; And use the Fricace to her, with those oils. Keep your news Item now, and tend this business. Let her alone to Time: he has directions, I'll hear your news Time Item, when you have done. These boisterous Soldiers have no better breeding. Here Mr. Compass comes: where's your Captain, Rudhudibr as de Ironside? Come, bring him out into the air a little: There set him down. Bow him, yet bow him more, Dash that same Glass of water in his face: Now tweak him by the nose. Hard, harder yet: If it but call the blood up from the heart, I ask no more. See, what a fear can do! Pinch him in the nape of the neck now; nip him, nip him. Tell him the Captain's gone. give him a box, hard, hard, on his left care. How do you feel your self? But where? I nipped him there. I boxed him twice, or thrice, to move those Sinews. Leave your Poetry good Gossip. Your Chaucers clouts, and wash your dishes with them, We must rub up the roots of his disease, And crave your peace a while, or else your absence. Then do it. give me your hand Sir Moath. Let's feel your pulse. It is a Pursiness, a kind of Stoppage, Or tumor o'the Purse, for want of exercise, That you are troubled with: some ligatures I'th neck of your Vesica, or Marsupium, Are so close knit, that you cannot evaporate; And therefore you must use relaxatives. Beside, they say, you are so restive grown, You cannot but with trouble put your hand Into your pocket, to discharge a reckoning. And this we sons of Physic do call chiragra A kind of Cramp, or Hand-Gout. You shall purge for't. You say well learned Time, I'll first prescribe him, To give his purse a purge once, twice a week At Dice, or Cards: And when the weather is open, Sweat at a bowling Alley; or be let blood In the lending vein, and bleed a matter of fifty, Or threescore ounces at a time. Then put Your thumbs under your Girdle, and have some body Else, pull out your purse for you, till with more ease, And a good habit, you can do it your self. And then be sure always to keep good diet; And h'your table furnished from one end, Unto the tother: It is good for the eyes, But feed you on one dish still, have your Diet-drink, Ever in Bottles ready, which must come From the Kingshead: I will prescribe you nothing; But what I'll take before you mine own self: That is my course with all my Patients. I had it of a Jew, and a great Rabbi, Who every morning cast his cup of White-wine With sugar, and by the residence in the bottom, Would make report of any Chronic malady, Such as Sir Moath is is, being and oppilation, In that you call the neck o'the money bladder, Most anatomical, and by dissection. If I did, What follows? So she was; and is i'the house still. I know no rattle of Gossips, nor their noises. I hope you take not me for a Pimp errant, To deal in smock Affairs? Where's the Patient? The infirm man, I was sent for, Squire Needle? My Apothecary tells me Enter Time. He is in danger; how is't Time? where is he? See, here becomes, He's fast asleep, observe him. Hee'll tell us wonders: What do these women here? He hears, but he sees nothing. If you ask questions, he awakes presently: And then you'll hear no more, till his next fit. Do you mark Sir? Int. (Hear you?) Save thy colours, Rainbow, Or she will run thee over, and all thy lights. Would thou hadst a dose of pills, a double dose, OF the best purge, to make thee turn tale, tother way. Madam, pray you bind her To her behaviour. Tie your Gossip up, Or send her unto Bethlehem. Where is he? gone? You have lost a fortune listening to her, to her Tabour. Good Madam lock her up. Follow his footing Before he get to his bed: This rest is lost else. It's such a Fly, this Gossip, with her buz, She blows on every thing, in every place! Yet instantly, As soon as he is warm. It is the nature Of the disease, and all these cold dry fumes, That are melancholic, to work at first, Slow, and insensibly in their ascent, Till being God up, and then distilling down upon the brain; they have a pricking quality That breeds this restless rest, which we, the sons Of Physic, call a walking in the sleep, And telling mysteries, that must be herd. Softly, with art, as we were sowing pillows Under the Patients elbows, else they fly Into a frenzy, run into the Woods, Where there are Noises, huntings, shoutings, hallowings, Amid the brakes, and furzes, over bridges Fallen into waters: Scratch their flesh: Sometime Drop down a precipice, and there be lost. How now! what does her? With what appetite Our own desires delude us! Hear you Time? Let no man interrupt us. Do, put them off, Time. And tell them the importance of the business. Here, he is come! sooth; and have all out of him. Smother your joy. Contain your self. He's gone. Follow him, And I will work As rare a cure upon him. When he hath uttered all, that you would know of him; I'll cleanse him with a pill (as small as a peas) And stop his mouth: for there his issue lies, Between the Muscles o'the tongue. What did he, Item? Prepare his pill, and give it him afore Supper. In mould? bruise every clod? And then, I would go down into the Well— It'll purchase the whole Bench of Aldermanity, Stripped to their shirts. Which was a sign Squire Needle Should have the threading of this thread. Ill have her statue cut, now in white marble. That's right! all City statues must be painted: Else, they be worth nought in their subtle Judgements. This is the Gentleman you brought to day, A Suitor to your Niece? You were Agreed, I herd; the writings drawn between you? What broke you off? Faith give them him, Sir Moath, what ere they were. You have a brave occasion now, to cross The flaunting Mr. Compass, who pretends Right to the portion, by th'other Intail. Here comes the Parson then, shall make all sure. You shall have time, Sir, to triumph on him, When this fine feat is done, and his Rud-Ironside. Help, help for Charity; Sir Moath Interest Is fallen into the Well. In the Garden. A rope to save his life. He thought to take possession of a fortune, There newly dropped him, and the old Chain broke, And down fell he in the Bucket. We cannot tell. A rope: help with a rope. I wished you stay Sir till to morrow: And told you, It was no lucky hour: since six a Clock All stars were retrograde. We all wish them joy, and happiness. Here are better men, Will give their Bail. He is not worth the Buckles About his Belt, and yet this Ironside clashes.