1 _Phys_. Very right; But there's no malitious humour mixt As in the king: Sir, you must understand A Scorpion stung him: now a Scorpion is A small compacted creature in whom Earth Hath the predominance, but mixt with fire, So that in him _Saturne_ and _Mars_ doe meet. This little Creature hath his severall humours, And these their excrements; these met together, Enflamed by anger, made a deadly poison; And by how much the creatures body's lesse By so much is the force of Venome more, As Lightning through a windows Casement Hurts more than that which enters at the doore. 2 _Phys_. But for the way to cure it? 1 _Phys_. I know none; Yet Ancient Writers have prescrib'd us many: As _Theophrastus_ holds most excellent Diophoratick[160] Medicines to expell Ill vapours from the noble parts by sweate; But _Avices_ and also _Rabby Roses_[161] Doe thinke it better by provoking Urin, Since by the Urine blood may well be purg'd, And spirits from the blood have nutriment, But for my part I ever held opinion In such a case the Ventosities are best. 2 _Phys_. They are indeed, and they doe farre exceede-- 1 _Phys_. All the great curious Cataphlasmes, Or the live taile of a deplum[e]d Henne, Or your hot Pigeons or your quartered whelpes;[162] For they by a meere forc'd attractive power Retaine that safely which by force was drawne, Whereas the other things I nam'd before Do lose their vertue as they lose their heat. 2 _Phys_. The ventosities shall be our next intensions. _Anton_. Pray, Gentlemen, attend his Highnesse. _King_. Your next intentions be to drowne your selves: Dogge-leaches all! I see I am not mortall, For I with patience have thus long endur'd Beyond the strength of all mortality; But now the thrice heate furnace of my bosome Disdaineth bounds: doe not I scorch you all? Goe, goe, you are all but prating Mountebankes, Quack-salvers and Imposures; get you all from me. 2 _Phys_. These Ventosities, my lord, will give you ease. _King_. A vengeance on thy Ventosities and thee! _Enter Eugenius_. _Anton_. The Bishop, Sir, is come. _King_. Christian, thy blood Must give me ease and helpe. _Eugen_. Drinke then thy fill: None of the Fathers that begot sweet Physick, That Divine Lady, comforter to man, Invented such a medicine as man's blood; A drinke so pretious should not be so spilt: Take mine, and Heaven pardon you the guilt. _King_. A Butcher! see his throat cut. _Eugen_. I am so farre from shrinking that mine owne hands Shall bare my throat; and am so farre from wishing Ill to you that mangle me, that before My blood shall wash these Rushes, King, I will cure thee. 1 _Phys_. You cure him? _King_. Speak on, fellow. _Eugen_. If I doe not Restore your limbs to soundnesse, drive the poyson From the infected part, study your tortures To teare me peece-meale yet be kept alive. _King_. O reverent man, come neare me; worke this wonder, Aske gold, honours, any, any thing The sublunary treasures of this world Can yeeld, and they are thine.