Lod. Now I think on’t, Sir, you may eat Writes.
a roasted Pippin cold upon a Vine-leaf, at night.
Lean. Do you see, Sir, what damn’d canting Rascals these Doctors are?
Sir Pat. Ay, ay, if all Doctors were such, ingenuously, I shou’d soon be weary of Physick.
Lean. Give ’em their Fees, Sir, and send ’em to the Devil for a Company of Cheats.
Sir Pat. Truth is, there is no faith in ’em,—well, I thank you for your Care and Pains. Gives ’em Fees.
Sir Cred. Sir, if you have any occasion for me, I live at the red-colour’d Lanthorn, with eleven Candles in’t, in the Strand; where you may come in privately, and need not be ashamed, I having no Creature in my House but my self, and my whole Family.—
Ick quam Van Neder Landt te spreken
End helpen Van Pocken end ander gebreken.
That’s a top of my Bill, sweet Sir. [Exeunt Doctors.]