Mir. My best Mountferrat. [Exeunt.
Scæna Quarta.
Enter Norandine and Doctor.
Nor. Doctor, I will see the Combat, that's the truth on't
If I had never a leg, I would crawl to see it.
Doct. You are most unfit, if I might counsel ye,
Your wounds so many, and the air—
Nor. The Halter;
The air's as good an air, as fine an air;
Wouldst thou have me live in an Oven?
Doct. Beside the noise, Sir:
Which to a tender body.
Nor. That's it, Doctor,
My body must be cur'd withal: if you'll heal me quickly,
Boil a Drum-head in my broth: I never prosper,
With knuckles o' Veal, and birds in Sorrel sops,
Cawdles, and Cullysses; they wash me away
Like a horse had eaten grains: if thou wilt cure me,
A pickled herring, and a pottle of Sack: Doctor,
And half a dozen Trumpets.
Doct. Y' are a strange Gentleman.
Nor. As e'r thou knew'st: wilt thou give me another glister
That I may sit cleanly there like a French Lady,
When she goes to a Mask at Court? where's thy hoboy?