_Cast._ Eat nothing for my health? that's a new dyet, Let me have something, something has some savor. Why thou uncourteous Doctor, shall I hang thee? _Doct._ 'Tis better Sir than I should let you surfeit, My death were nothing. _Vil._ To loose a King, were terrible. _Cast._ Nay, then I'll carve my self, I'll stay no ceremonies. This is a Patridge Pye, I am sure that's nourishing, Or _Galen_ is an Ass: 'tis rarely season'd: Ha Doctor have I hit right? a mark a mark there? [_take away._ _Vil._ What ails thy grace? _Cast._ Retriv those Patridges. Or as I am a King-- _Doct._ Pray Sir be patient, They are flowen too far. _Vil._ These are breath'd pyes an't please you, And your hawkes are such Buzards. _Cast._ A King and have nothing, Nor can have nothing! _Vil._ What think you of pudding? A pudding Royal? _Cast._ To be royally starv'd, Whip me this fool to death; he is a blockhead. _Vil._ Let 'em think they whip me, as we think you a King: 'Twill be enough. _Cast._ As for your dainty Doctor, the Table taken away, All gone, all snatch'd away, and I unsatisfied, Without my wits being a King and hungry? Suffer but this thy treason? I tell thee Doctor. I tell it thee, in earnest, and in anger, I am damnably hungry, my very grace is hungry. _Vil._ A hungry grace is fittest to no meal Sir. _Doct._ Some two hours hence, you shall see more: but still Sir You must retain an excellent and strict dyet. _Vil._ It sharpens you, and makes your wit so poynant, Sir Your very words will kill. _Doct._ A bit of Marmalade No bigger than a Pease. _Vil._ And that well butter'd, The ayr thrice purified, and three times spirited, Becomes a King: your rare conserve of nothing Breeds no offence. _Cast._ Am I turn'd King _Camelion_, And keep my Court i'th' ayr? _Fer._ They vex him cruelly. _Asca._ In two days more they'll starve him. _Fer._ Now the women, there's no food left but they. _Asca._ They'll prove small nourishment. Yet h'as another stomach and a great one, I see by his eye. _Cast._ I'll have mine own power here; Mine own Authority; I need no tutor. Doctor this is no dyet. _Doct._ It may be Sir. _Vil._ Birlady, it may turn to a dry dyet; And how thy grace, will ward that-- _Cast._ Stand off Doctor; And talk to those that want faith. _Fer._ Hot and mighty. _Asca._ He will cool apace, no doubt. _Cast._ Fair, plump, and red, A forehead high, an eye revives the dead; A lip like ripest fruit, inviting still. _Vil._ But O, the rushy well, below the hill, Take heed of that, for though it never fail Take heed I say, for thereby hangs a tail. _Cast._ I'll get ye all with Child. _Vil._ With one Child Brother, So many men in a Blew Coat.