_Hyl._ He must not touch it, 'Tis present death. _Tho._ Ye are an Ass, a twirepipe, A _Jeffery John bo peepe_, thou mimister, Thou mend a left-handed pack-saddle, out puppey, My friend _Frank_, but a very foolish fellow: Do'st thou see that Bottle? view it well. _Fran._ I do _Tom_. _Tho._ There be as many lives in't, as a Cat carries, 'Tis everlasting liquor. _Fran._ What? _Tho._ Old Sack, Boy, Old reverend Sack, which for ought that I can read yet, Was that Philosophers Stone the wise King _Ptolomeus_ Did all his wonders by. _Fran._ I see no harm _Tom_, Drink with a moderation. _Tho._ Drink with suger, Which I have ready here, and here a glass boy, Take me without my tools. _Sam._ Pray Sir be temperate, You know your own state best. _Fra._ Sir, I much thank ye, And shall be careful: yet a glass or two So fit I find my body, and that so needful. _Tho._ Fill it, and leave your fooling: thou say'st true _Frank_. _Hyl._ Where are these Women I say? _Tho._ 'Tis most necessary, Hang up your Julips and your _Portugal_ Possets, Your barley Broths, and sorrel Sops, they are mangy, And breed the Scratches only: give me Sack: I wonder where this Wench is though: have at thee. _Hyl._ So long, and yet no bolting? _Fra._ Do, I'le pledge thee. _Tho._ Take it off thrice, and then cry heigh like a Huntsman With a clear heart, and no more fits I warrant thee. The only Cordial, _Frank_. [_Phys. and Serv. within._ _1 Phys._ Are the things ready? And is the Barber come? _Ser._ An hour ago, Sir. _1 Phys._ Bring out the Oyls then. _Fran._ Now or never Gentlemen, Do me a kindness and deliver me. _Tho._ From whom boy? _Fra._ From these things, that talk within there, Physicians, _Tom_, Physicians, scowring-sticks, They mean to read upon me. _Enter three Phys. Apoth. and Barber._ _Hyl._ Let 'em enter. _Tho._ And be thou confident, we will deliver thee: For look ye Doctor, say the Devil were sick now, His horns saw'd off, and his head bound with a Biggin, Sick of a Calenture, taken by a Surfeit Of stinking souls at his Nephews, and Sᵗ _Dunstans_, What would you minister upon the sudden? Your judgment short and sound. _1 Phy._ A fools head. _Tho._ No Sir, It must be a Physicians for three causes, The first because it is a bald-head likely, Which will down easily without Applepap. _3 Phy._ A main cause. _Tho._ So it is, and well consider'd. The second, for 'tis fill'd with broken Greek, Sir, Which will so tumble in his stomach, Doctor, And work upon the crudities, conceive me, The fears, and the fiddle-strings within it, That those damn'd souls must disembogue again. _Hyl._ Or meeting with the stygian humour. _Tho._ Right, Sir.