MOS: Troth, as he did, sir; no amends.
CORB: What! mends he?
MOS: No, sir: he"s rather worse.
CORB: That"s well. Where is he?
MOS: Upon his couch sir, newly fall"n asleep.
CORB: Does he sleep well?
MOS: No wink, sir, all this night.
Nor yesterday; but slumbers.
CORB: Good! he should take Some counsel of physicians: I have brought him An opiate here, from mine own doctor.
MOS: He will not hear of drugs.
CORB: Why? I myself Stood by while it was made; saw all the ingredients: And know, it cannot but most gently work: My life for his, "tis but to make him sleep.
VOLP [ASIDE.]: Ay, his last sleep, if he would take it.
MOS: Sir, He has no faith in physic.
CORB: "Say you? "say you?
MOS: He has no faith in physic: he does think Most of your doctors are the greater danger, And worse disease, to escape. I often have Heard him protest, that your physician Should never be his heir.
CORB: Not I his heir?
MOS: Not your physician, sir.
CORB: O, no, no, no, I do not mean it.
MOS: No, sir, nor their fees He cannot brook: he says, they flay a man, Before they kill him.
CORB: Right, I do conceive you.
MOS: And then they do it by experiment; For which the law not only doth absolve them, But gives them great reward: and he is loth To hire his death, so.
CORB: It is true, they kill, With as much license as a judge.
MOS: Nay, more; For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns, And these can kill him too.
CORB: Ay, or me; Or any man. How does his apoplex?
Is that strong on him still?
MOS: Most violent.
His speech is broken, and his eyes are set, His face drawn longer than "twas wont-
CORB: How! how!
Stronger then he was wont?
MOS: No, sir: his face Drawn longer than "twas wont.
CORB: O, good!
MOS: His mouth Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang.
CORB: Good.
MOS: A freezing numbness stiffens all his joints, And makes the colour of his flesh like lead.
CORB: "Tis good.
MOS: His pulse beats slow, and dull.
CORB: Good symptoms, still.
MOS: And from his brain-
CORB: I conceive you; good.
MOS: Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum, Forth the resolved corners of his eyes.
CORB: Is"t possible? yet I am better, ha!
How does he, with the swimming of his head?
B: O, sir, "tis past the scotomy; he now Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort: You hardly can perceive him, that he breathes.
CORB: Excellent, excellent! sure I shall outlast him: This makes me young again, a score of years.
MOS: I was a coming for you, sir.
CORB: Has he made his will?
What has he given me?
MOS: No, sir.
CORB: Nothing! ha?
MOS: He has not made his will, sir.
CORB: Oh, oh, oh!
But what did Voltore, the Lawyer, here?
MOS: He smelt a carcase, sir, when he but heard My master was about his testament; As I did urge him to it for your good-
CORB: He came unto him, did he? I thought so.