_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.