Bob. 'Tis true.
Pio. And to purge phlegmatick humor, and cold crudities;
In all that time he drank me Aqua-fortis,
And nothing else but—
Bo. Aqua-vitæ Signior,
For Aqua-fortis poisons.
Pio. Aqua-fortis
I say again: what's one man's poison, Signior,
Is anothers meat or drink.
Bob. Your patience, Sir;
By your good patience, h' had a huge cold stomach.
Pio. I fir'd it: and gave him then three sweats
In the Artillery-yard three drilling daies:
And now he'll shoot a Gun, and draw a Sword,
And fight with any man in Christendom.
Bob. A receipt for a coward: I'll be bold, Sir,
To write your good prescription.
Pio. Sir, hereafter
You shall, and underneath it put probatum:
Is your chain right?
Bob. 'Tis both right and just Sir;
For though I am a Steward, I did get it
With no mans wrong.
Pio. You are witty.