Surg. My Salves, and all my Instruments are lost;
And I am hurt and starv'd;
Good Sir, seek for some herbs.
Tib. Here's Herb-graceless, will that serve?
Gentlemen will ye go to supper?
All. Where's the meat?
Tib. Where's the meat? what a Veal voice is there?
Fran. Would we had it Sir, or any thing else.
Tib. I would now cut your throat you dog,
But that I wo'not doe you such a courtesie;
To take you from the benefit of starving,
Oh! what a comfort will your worship have some three days hence!
Ye things beneath pitty, Famine shall be your harbinger;
You must not look for Down-beds here,
Nor Hangings; though I could wish ye strong ones;
Yet there be many lightsome cool Star-chambers,
Open to every sweet air, I'll assure ye,
Ready provided for ye, and so I'll leave ye;
Your first course is serv'd, expect the second. [Exit.
Fran. A vengeance on these Jewels.
Lam. Oh! this cursed Gold. [Exeunt.