Eug. Shall I call back your friends?
Marc. O no, but e'r I do impart
What burthens me so sore, let me intreat you,
(For there is no trust in these Surgeons)
To look upon my wound; it is perhaps
My last request: But tell me truely too,
That must be in: how far do you imagine
It will have pow'r upon me.
Eug. Sir, I will.
Marc. For heavens sake, softly: oh, I must needs lay
My head down easily, whilst you do it.
Eug. Do Sir,
'Tis but an ordinary blow; a child
Of mine has had a greater, and been well;
Are you faint hearted?
Marc. Oh.
Eug. Why do you sigh?
There is no danger in the world in this;
I wonder it should make a man sit down;
What do you mean, why do you kiss my breasts?
Lift up your head, your wound, may well endure it.
Mar. O Madam, may I not express affection,
Dying-affection too I fear, to those
That do me favors, such as this of yours.
Eug. If you mean so, 'tis well; but what's the business
Lies on your conscience?
Mar. I will tell you Madam.