Ment. And deserved too, y'have many worthy freinds.
Bap. Preserve and use them. [Exeunt. Manet Cesar.
Ces. Good, very good, why here's a complement
Of mirth in desperation, I could curse
My fate: O with what speed men tumble down
From hopes that soar too high. Biancha now
May scorn me justly too, Clarissa married,
Alberto's widdow resolute, Biancha
Refus'd, and I forsaken: let me study,
I can but die a Batchelor that's the worst on't. [Exit.
Enter Host, Taylor, Muliter, Dancer, Pedant, Coxcombe.
Host. Come Gentlemen,
This is the day that our great artist hath
Promis'd to give all your severall suits satisfaction.
Dancer. Is he stirring?
Host. He hath been at his book these t[w]o hours.
Pedant. He's a rare Physitian.
Host. Why I'll tell you,
Were Paracelsus the German now
Living, he'd take up his single rapier against his
Terrible long sword, he makes it a matter of nothing
To cure the gout, sore eyes he takes out as familiarly,
Washes them, and puts them in again,
As you'd blanch almonds.
Tay. They say he can make gold.