Enter Piorato, and B[o]badilla, with Letters.
Pio. To s[a]y, Sir, I will wait upon your Lord,
Were not to understand my self.
Bob. To say Sir,
You will do any thing but wait upon him,
Were not to understand my Lord.
Pio. I'll meet him
Some half hour hence, and doubt not but to render
His Son a man again: the cure is easie,
I have done divers.
Bob. Women do ye mean, Sir?
Pio. Cures I do mean, Sir: be there but one spark
Of fire remaining in him unextinct,
With my discourse I'll blow it to a flame;
And with my practice into action:
I have had one so full of childish fear,
And womanish-hearted sent to my advice,
He durst not draw a knife to cut his meat.
Bob. And how Sir, did you help him?
Pio. Sir, I kept him
Seven daies in a dark room by a Candle-light,
A plenteous Table spread with all good meats,
Before his eyes, a Case of keen broad Knives,
Upon the board, and he so watch'd he might not
Touch the least modicum, unless he cut it:
And thus I brought him first to draw a knife.
Bob. Good.
Pio. Then for ten daies did I diet him
Only with burnt Pork, Sir, and gammons of Bacon;
A pill of Caveary now and then,
Which breeds choler adust you know.