Doct. Some two hours hence, you shall see more: but still Sir
You must retain an excellent and strict dyet.
Vil. It sharpens you, and makes your wit so poynant, Sir
Your very words will kill.
Doct. A bit of Marmalade
No bigger than a Pease.
Vil. And that well butter'd,
The ayr thrice purified, and three times spirited,
Becomes a King: your rare conserve of nothing
Breeds no offence.
Cast. Am I turn'd King Camelion,
And keep my Court i'th' ayr?
Fer. They vex him cruelly.
Asca. In two days more they'll starve him.
Fer. Now the women, there's no food left but they.
Asca. They'll prove small nourishment.
Yet h'as another stomach and a great one,
I see by his eye.
Cast. I'll have mine own power here;
Mine own Authority; I need no tutor.
Doctor this is no dyet.