BOB. Signior, believe me (upon my relation) for what I tell you, the world shall not improve. I have been in the Indies, (where this herb grows) where neither myself nor a dozen gentlemen more (of my knowledge) have received the taste of any other nutriment in the world, for the space of one and twenty weeks, but tobacco only. Therefore it cannot be but 'tis most divine. Further, take it in the nature, in the true kind, so, it makes an antidote, that had you taken the most deadly poisonous simple in all Florence it should expel it, and clarify you with as much ease as I speak. And for your green wound, your Balsamum, and your -- are all mere gulleries, and trash to it, especially your Trinidado: your Nicotian is good too: I could say what I know of the virtue of it, for the exposing of rheums, raw humours, crudities, obstructions, with a thousand of this kind; but I profess myself no quack-salver. Only thus much; by Hercules, I do hold it, and will affirm it (before any Prince in Europe) to be the most sovereign and precious herb that ever the earth tendered to the use of man. LOR. JU. Oh, this speech would have done rare in an apothecary's mouth. [ENTER PISO AND COB.] PIS. Ay; close by Saint Anthony's: Doctor Clement's. COB. Oh, oh. BOB. Where's the match I gave thee? PIS. 'Sblood, would his match, and he, and pipe, and all, were at Sancto Domingo. [EXIT.] COB. By God's deins, I marle what pleasure or felicity they have in taking this roguish tobacco; it's good for nothing but to choke a man, and fill him full of smoke and embers: there were four died out of one house last week with taking of it, and two more the bell went for yesternight, one of them (they say) will ne'er escape it, he voided a bushel of soot yesterday, upward and downward. By the stocks, an there were no wiser men than I, I'd have it present death, man or woman, that should but deal with a tobacco pipe; why, it will stifle them all in the end as many as use it; it's little better than rat's-bane. [EXIT PISO.] ALL. Oh, good Signior; hold, hold. BOB. You base cullion, you. PIS. Sir, here's your match; come, thou must needs be talking too. COB. Nay, he will not meddle with his match, I warrant you; well, it shall be a dear beating, an I live. BOB. Do you prate? LOR. JU. Nay, good Signior, will you regard the humour of a fool? Away, knave. PROS. Piso, get him away. [EXIT PISO AND COB.] BOB. A whoreson filthy slave, a turd, an excrement. Body of Caesar, but that I scorn to let forth so mean a spirit, I'd have stabb'd him to the earth. PROS. Marry, God forbid, sir. BOB. By this fair heaven, I would have done it. STEP. Oh, he swears admirably; (by this fair heaven!) Body of Caesar: I shall never do it, sure (upon my salvation). No, I have not the right grace.