Tib. Retire Sir: and make the best use of our miseries.
They but begin now.
Enter Aminta.
Amint. Are ye alive still?
Alb. Yes sweet.
Tib. Help him off Lady;
And wrap him warm in your arms,
Here's something that's comfortable; off with him handsomely,
I'll come to ye straight; but vex these rascals a little.
[Exit Albert, Aminta.
Fran. Oh, I am hungry, and hurt, and I am weary.
Tib. Here's a Pestle of a Portigue, Sir;
'Tis excellent meat, with sour sauce;
And here's two Chains, suppose 'em Sausages;
Then there wants Mustard;
But the fearful Surgeon will supply ye presently:
Lam. Oh for that Surgeon, I shall die else.
Tib. Faith there he lies in the same pickle too.