_Host._ Now they throng like so many horse-coursers at a fair, in clusters about the Man of Art, for Love-powders, ingredients, potions, counsels, postures, complements, philters: the Devil and the--How now? Tumults? Batteries, Noise? ha, get from my sight. [_Clown cries within._ _Enter_ Forobosco, _and_ Clown, _his head bloody_. _Clow._ Murther me, do, pound me to Mummy, do; see what will come on't. _Foro._ Dog, leave thy snarling, or I'll cut thy tongue out, Thou un[l]ickt Bear, dar'st thou yet stand my fury, My generous rage? yet! by the sulpherous damps That feed the hungry and incessant darkness, Which curles around the grim _Alastors_ back, Mutter again, and with one powerful word, I'll call an Host up from the _Stygian_ Lakes, Shall waft thee to the _Acherontick_ fens; Where choak't with Mists as black as thy impostures, Thou shalt live still a dying. _Clow._ Conjure me to the Devil and you can, I live in Hell upon earth already, and you had any mercy, you would not practice upon a kind heart thus. _Host._ You have drawn blood from him Signior, Is his offence unpardonable? _Foro._ A lump of ignorance, pray speak not for him, A drowsie grossness, in all Christian Kingdoms, The mention of my art, my name, my practise, Merit and Glory hath begot at once Delight and wonder; I'll not be entreated; Spare intercession for him,----O thou scorn Of learning, shame of duty; must thy sloth Draw my just fame in question? I discharge thee From my service; see me no more henceforth. _Clow._ Discharge me! Is that my years wages? I'll not be so answer'd. _Foro._ Not Camel? Sirrah I am liberal to thee; Thou hast thy life, be gone. _Clow._ Vengeance, sweet vengeance. _Foro._ De'e mumble? _Clow._ I'll be reveng'd, monstrously, suddenly, and insatiably; my bulk begins to swell. _Foro. Homotolenton_, _Pragmatophoros_, _Heliostycorax_. _Clo._ Call up your Spirits, I defie 'em; well, I'll have Law for my broken pate, twelve ounces of pure blood; _Troy_-weight. In despight of thee my Master, and thy Master the grand Devil himself, _vindicta_, _vindicta_.--[_Exit._ _Host._ Signior, you are exceeding mov'd. _Hostess._ Mercy upon us, What terrible words thou talk'st? _Foro._ A slave, a curr--but be not you afrighted Young Virgin, 'twere an injury to sweetness: Should any rough sound draw from your cheeks, The pretious tincture which makes nature proud Of her own workmanship. _Host._ Wife, Mark, mark that Wife. _Bian._ Shake then your anger off Sir. _Foro._ You command it Fair one, mine Host and Hostess, with your leaves I have a motion joyntly to you all. _Hostess._ An honest one I hope. _Host._ Well put in Wife.