_Ferd._ Let it be a new laid one, you were best.-- Hide me from him: physicians are like kings,-- They brook no contradiction. _Doc._ Now he begins to fear me: now let me alone with him. _Card._ How-now! put off your gown! _Doc._ Let me have some forty urinals filled with rose-water: he and I'll go pelt one another with them.--Now he begins to fear me.--Can you fetch a frisk, sir?--Let him go, let him go, upon my peril: I find by his eye he stands in awe of me; I'll make him as tame as a dormouse. _Ferd._ Can you fetch your frisks, sir!--I will stamp him into a cullis, flay off his skin, to cover one of the anatomies[140] this rogue hath set i' the cold yonder in Barber-Surgeon's-hall.--Hence, hence! you are all of you like beasts for sacrifice: there's nothing left of you but tongue and belly, flattery and lechery. [_Exit._ _Pes._ Doctor, he did not fear you throughly. _Doc._ True; I was somewhat too forward. _Bos._ Mercy upon me, what a fatal judgment Hath fall'n upon this Ferdinand! _Pes._ Knows your grace What accident hath brought unto the prince This strange distraction? _Card._ [_Aside._] I must feign somewhat.--Thus they say it grew. You have heard it rumoured, for these many years None of our family dies but there is seen The shape of an old woman, which is given By tradition to us to have been murdered By her nephews for her riches. Such a figure One night, as the prince sat up late at's book, Appeared to him; when crying out for help, The gentlemen of's chamber found his grace All on a cold sweat, altered much in face And language: since which apparition, He hath grown worse and worse, and I much fear He cannot live. _Bos._ Sir, I would speak with you. _Pes._ We'll leave your grace, Wishing to the sick prince, our noble lord, All health of mind and body. _Card._ You are most welcome. [_Exeunt_ PESCARA, MALATESTI, _and_ Doctor. Are you come? so.--[_Aside._] This fellow must not know By any means I had intelligence In our duchess' death; for, though I counselled it, The full of all the engagement seemed to grow From Ferdinand.--Now, sir, how fares our sister? I do not think but sorrow makes her look Like to an oft-dyed garment: she shall now Taste comfort from me. Why do you look so wildly? O, the fortune of your master here the prince Dejects you; but be you of happy comfort: If you'll do one thing for me I'll entreat, Though he had a cold tombstone o'er his bones, I'd make you what you would be. _Bos._ Any thing; Give it me in a breath, and let me fly to't: They that think long small expedition win, For musing much o' the end cannot begin. _Enter_ JULIA. _Julia._ Sir, will you come in to supper? _Card._ I am busy; leave me. _Julia._ [_Aside._] What an excellent shape hath that fellow! [_Exit._