_Franville._ O Lamure, the happiness my dogs had When I kept house at home! They had a storehouse, A storehouse of most blessed bones and crusts. Happy crusts! Oh, how sharp hunger pinches me! _Lamure._ How now, what news? _Morillar._ Hast any meat yet? _Franville._ Not a bit that I can see. Here be goodly quarries, but they be cruel hard To gnaw. I ha’ got some mud, we’ll eat it with spoons; Very good thick mud; but it stinks damnably. There’s old rotten trunks of trees, too, But not a leaf nor blossom in all the island. _Lamure._ How it looks! _Morillar._ It stinks too. _Lamure._ It may be poison. _Franville._ Let it be any thing, So I can get it down. Why, man, Poison’s a princely dish! _Morillar._ Hast thou no biscuit? No crumbs left in thy pocket? Here is my doublet, Give me but three small crumbs. _Franville._ Not for three kingdoms, If I were master of ’em. Oh, Lamure, But one poor joint of mutton we ha’ scorned, man! _Lamure._ Thou speak’st of paradise; Or but the snuffs of those healths, We have lewdly at midnight flung away. _Morillar._ Ah, but to lick the glasses! But this is nothing, compared with the next scene, when the ship’s surgeon enters. _Franville._ Here comes the surgeon. What Hast thou discovered? Smile, smile, and comfort us. _Surgeon._ 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 them! _Morillar._ Hast ne’er an old suppository? _Surgeon._ Oh, would I had, sir! _Lamure._ Or but the paper where such a cordial Potion, or pills hath been entombed! _Franville._ Or the best bladder, where a cooling glister? _Morillar._ Hast thou no searcloths left? Nor any old poultices? _Franville._ We care not to what it hath been ministered. _Surgeon._ Sure I have none of these dainties, gentlemen. _Franville._ Where’s the great wen Thou cut’st from Hugh the sailor’s shoulder? That would serve now for a most princely banquet. _Surgeon._ Ay, if we had it, gentlemen. I flung it overboard, slave that I was. _Lamure._ A most improvident villain! NOTE 53, p. 177. Æneid, lib. ii. 7, and especially lib. xi. 183. We might safely, therefore, add such a work to the list of lost writings by this author. NOTE 54, p. 179.