Bob. So, so.
Could you not cure one Sir, of being too rash
And over-daring? there now's my disease:
Fool-hardy as they say, for that in sooth,
I am.
Pio. Most easily.
Bob. How?
Pio. To make you drunk, Sir,
With small Beer once a day, and beat you twice,
Till you be bruis'd all over: if that help not,
Knock out your brains.
Bob. This is strong Physick Signior,
And never will agree with my weak body:
I find the medicine worse than the malady,
And therefore will remain fool-hardy still:
You'll come, Sir?
Pio. As I am a Gentleman.
Bob. A man o' th' Sword should never break his word.
Pio. I'll overtake you: I have only, Sir
A complimental visitation
To offer to a Mistriss lodg'd here by.
Bob. A Gentlewoman?
Pio. Yes Sir.