_1._ If it be treason, the discovery will get our pardon, Captain. _Devit._ Would we were all lost, hang'd, quarter'd, to save this one, one innocent Prince; _Thierry_'s poison'd, by his mother poison'd, the Mistriss to this stallion, who by that poison ne'er shall sleep again. _2._ 'Foot let us mince him by piece-meal[e], till he eat himself up. _3._ Let us dig out his heart with needles, and half broil him like a Mussel. _Prot._ Such another and I prevent you, my bloud's setled already. _Devit._ Here's that shall remove it, toad, viper, drag him unto _Martel_, unnatural par[r]icide, cruel, bloudy woman. _Omnes._ On you dogfish, leech, caterpillar. _Devit._ A longer sight of him will make my rage turn pity, and with his suddain end, prevent revenge and torture, wicked, wicked _Brunhalt_. [_Exit._ _Enter_ Bawdber _and three Courtiers_. _1._ Not sleep at all, no means. _2._ No Art can do it. _Bawdb._ I will assure you, he can sleep no more Than a hooded Hawk[e], a centinel to him, Or one of the City Constables are tops. _3._ How came he so? _Bawdb._ They are too wise that dare know, Something's amiss, heaven help all. _1._ What cure has he? _Bawdb._ Armies of those we call Physitians, some with glisters, Some with Lettice-caps, some posset-drinks, some Pills, Twenty consulting here about a drench, [As many here to blood him; Then comes a Don of _Spaine_, and he prescribes More cooling opium then would kill a turke, Or quench a whore ith dogdayes; after him A wise Italian, and he cries, tie unto him A woman of fourescore, whose bones are marble, Whose bloud snow water, not so much heate about her As may conceive a prayer: after him An English Doctor, with a bunch of pot hearbes; And he cries out Endiffe and suckery, With a few mallow rootes and butter milke, And talkes of oyle made of a churchmans charity, Yet still he wakes. _1._ But your good honor Has a praye[r] in store if all should faile. _Bawdb._ I could have prayed, and handsomely, But age and an ill memory. _3._ Has spoyl'd your primmer. _Bawdb._ Yet if there be a man of faith i'the Court, And can pray for a pension. _Enter Thierry, on a bed, with Doctors and attendants._ _2._ Here's the King Sir, And those that will pray without pay. _Bawdb._ Then pray for me too. _1 Doct._ How does your grace now feele your selfe? _Thier._ What's that? _1 Doct._ Nothing at all Sir, but your fancy.