_Flor_. _Cornelia_, do you serve the Prince with wine? [_Shee puts the powder into the Cup and gives it the Prince_. _Alber_. I thanke you, Lady; Earle _Cassimeere_, I greete you, and remember Your faire _Hyanthe_. _Cass_. I thanke your honour. [_Sing boyre a &c_. _Flor_. Fill my Lord _Cassimere_ his right of wine. _Cass_. _Cornelia_, I give you this dead carowse. _Corn_. I thanke your Lordship. [_Sing boyre a &c_. _Alber_. What smoake? smoake and fire. _Cass_. What meanes your honour? _Alber_. Powder, powder, _Etna_, sulphure, fier: quench it, quench it. _Flor_. I feare the medcine hath distemper'd him.--O villaine Doctor! _Alber_. Downe with the battlements, powre water on! I burne, I burne; O give me leave to flie Out of these flames, these fiers that compasse me. [_Exit_. _Cass_. What an unheard off accident is this? Would God, friend _Flores_, t'had not happen'd here. _Flor_. My Lord, 'tis sure some Planet[53] striketh him; No doubt the furie will away againe. _Cass_. Ile follow him. [_Exit_. _Lass_. What hellish spright ordain'd this hatefull feast That ends with horror thus and discontent? _Flor_. I hope no daunger will succeede therein; However, I resolve me to conceale it.-- My Lord, wilt please you now to change this habit, And deck your selfe with ornaments more fit For celebration of your marriage? _Lass_. I, I, put on me what attire you will; My discontent, that dwels within me still. [_Exeunt_ [SCENE 2.] _Enter Haunce solus_. _Hans_. Whom shall a man trust? a Painter? No: a servant? No: a bed fellowe? No: For, seeming for to see, it falls out right: All day a Painter, and an Earle at night. _Enter Doctor_. _Doct_. Ho, _Zaccharee_, bid _Ursula_ brushe my two, tree fine Damaske gowne; spread de rishe coverlet on de faire bed; vashe de fine plate; smoake all de shambra vit de sweete perfume. _Hans_. Heer's the Doctor: what a gaping his wisedom keepes i'the streete! As if he could not have spoken all this within. _Doct_. Ho, _Zaccharee_, if de grand patient come, you finde me signior _Flores_. _Hans_. By your leave, maister Doctor. _Doct_. _Hans_, my very speciall friend; fait and trot, me be right glad for see you veale. _Hans_. What, do you make a Calfe of me, M. Doctor? _Doct_. O no, pardona moy; I say vell, be glad for see you vell, in good health. _Hans_. O, but I am sick, M. Doctor; very exceeding sick, sir. _Doct_. Sick? tella me, by garr; me cure you presently. _Hans_. A dead palsey, M. Doctor, a dead palsey. _Doct_. Veare? veare? _Hans_. Heere, M. Doctor; I cannot feele, I cannot feele. _Doct_. By garr, you be de brave, merry man; de fine proper man; de very fine, brave, little, propta sweet Jack man; by garr, me loov'a you, me honour you, me kisse'a your foote.