_Fran._ Let it be any thing; So I can get it down: Why Man, Poyson's a Princely dish. _Mor._ Hast thou no Bisket? No crumbs left in thy pocket: here's my dublet, Give me but three small crumbes. _Fran._ Not for three Kingdoms, If I were master of 'em: Oh _Lamure_, But one poor joynt of Mutton: we ha scorn'd (Man). _Lam._ Thou speak'st of Paradis. [_Fran._] Or but the snuffes of those healths, We have lewdly at midnight flang away. _Mor._ Ah! but to lick the Glasses. _Enter_ Surgeon. _Fran._ Here comes the Surgeon: What Hast thou discover'd? smile, smile, and comfort us. _Sur._ I am expiring; Smile they that can: I can find nothing Gentlemen, Here's nothing can be meat, without a miracle. Oh that I had my boxes, and my lints now, My stupes, my tents, and those sweet helps of nature, What dainty dishes could I make of 'em. _Mor._ Hast ne'er an old suppository? _Sur._ Oh would I had Sir. _Lam._ Or, but the paper where such a Cordial Potion, or Pills hath been entomb'd. _Fran._ Or the best bladder where a cooling-glister. _Mor._ Hast thou no searcloths left? Nor any old pultesses? _Fran._ We care not to what it hath been ministred. _Sur._ Sure I have none of these dainties Gentlemen. _Fran._ Where's the great Wen Thou cut'st from _Hugh_ the saylers shoulder? That would serve now for a most Princely banquet. _Sur._ I, if we had it Gentlemen. I flung it over-board, slave that I was. _Lam._ A most unprovident villain. _Sur._ If I had any thing that were but supple now! I could make Sallads of your shoos Gentlemen, And rare ones: any thing unctious. _Mor._ I, and then we might fry the soals i'th' Sun. The soals would make a second dish. _Lam._ Or, souce 'em in the salt-water, An inner soal well souc'd. _En. Aminta._ _Fran._ Here comes the Woman; It may be she has meat, and may relieve us, Let's withdraw, and mark, and then be ready, She'll hide her store else, and so cozen us. _Amin._ How weary, and how hungry am I, How feeble, and how faint is all my body! Mine eyes like spent Lamps glowing out, grow heavy, My sight forsaking me, and all my spirits, As if they heard my passing bell go for me, Pull in their powers, and give me up to destiny, Oh! for a little water: a little, little meat, A little to relieve me ere I perish: I had whole floods of tears awhile that nourisht me, But they are all consum'd for thee dear _Albert_; For thee they are spent, for thou art dead; Merciless fate has swallow'd thee. Oh----I grow heavy: sleep is a salve for misery; Heaven look on me, and either take my life, Or make me once more happy.