Rod. A rare Physitian,
What would your practise gain ye?
Mar. The wars ended,
I mean to use my Art, and have these fools
Cut in the head like Cats, to save the kingdom,
Another Inquisition.
Rod. So old a Soldier
Out of the wars, I never knew yet practised.
Mar. I shall mend every day; but noble General,
Believe this, but as this you nam'd discourses.
Rod. Oh ye are a cunning Gamester.
Mar. Mirths and toys
To cosin time withal, for o' my troth Sir,
I can love; I think, well too; well enough
And think as well of women as they are,
Pretty fantastick things, some more regardful,
And some few worth a service: I am so honest,
I wish 'em all in heaven, and you know how hard Sir
'Twill be to get in there with their great farthingals.
Rod. Well Mark-antonio, I would not loose thy company
For the best Galley I command.
Marc. Faith General,
If these discourses please ye, I shall fit ye
Once every day. [Knock within.
Rod. Thou canst not please me better: hark, they call
Below to dinner: ye are my Cabbin guest,
My bosom's, so you please Sir.
Marc. Your poor Servant. [Exeunt.