_Fra._ What questions they propound too! how do you, Sir? I am glad to see you well. _3 Phy._ A great distemper, it grows hotter still. _1 Phy._ Open your mouth, I pray, Sir. _Frank._ And can you tell me How old I am then? there's my hand, pray shew me How many broken shins within this two year. Who would be thus in fetters, good master Doctor, And you dear Doctor, and the third sweet Doctor, And precious master Apothecary, I do pray ye To give me leave to live a little longer, Ye stand before me like my Blacks. _2 Phy._ 'Tis dangerous, For now his fancy turns too. _Enter_ Cellide. _Cell._ By your leave Gentlemen: And pray ye your leave a while too, I have something Of secret to impart unto the Patient. _1._ With all our hearts. _3._ I mary such a Physick May chance to find the humour: be not long Lady, For we must minister within this half hour. [_Ex. Phys._ _Cell._ You shall not stay for me. _Fra._ Would you were all rotten That ye might only intend one anothers itches: Or would the Gentlemen with one consent Would drink small Beer but seven years, and abolish That wild fire of the blood, unsatiate wenching, That your two Indies, springs and falls might fail ye, What torments these intruders into bodies. _Cell._ How do you worthy Sir? _Fran._ Bless me, what beams Flew from these Angel eyes! O what a misery What a most studied torment 'tis to me now To be an honest man! dare ye sit by me? _Cell._ Yes, and do more than that too: comfort ye, I see ye have need. _Fran._ You are a fair Physician: You bring no bitterness gilt o're, to gull us, No danger in your looks, yet there my death lyes. _Cell._ I would be sorry, Sir, my charity And my good wishes for your health should merit So stubborn a construction: will it please ye To taste a little of this Cordial _Enter_ Valentine. For this I think must cure ye. _Fra._ Of which Lady? Sure she has found my grief: why do you blush so? _Cell._ Do you not understand? of this, this Cordial. _Val._ O my afflicted heart: she is gone for ever. _Fra._ What heaven have ye brought me Lady? _Cell._ Do not wonder: For 'tis no impudence, nor want of honour Makes me do this: but love to save your life, Sir, Your life too excellent to lose in wishes, Love, vertuous love. _Fra._ A vertuous blessing crown ye, O goodly sweet, can there be so much charity So noble a compassion in that heart That's fill'd up with anothers fair affections? Can mercy drop from those eyes? Can miracles be wrought upon a dead man, When all the power ye have, and perfect object Lyes in anothers light, and his deserves it?