Lam. It may be poyson.
Fran. Let it be any thing;
So I can get it down: Why Man,
Poyson's a Princely dish.
Mor. Hast thou no Bisket?
No crumbs left in thy pocket: here's my dublet,
Give me but three small crumbes.
Fran. Not for three Kingdoms,
If I were master of 'em: Oh Lamure,
But one poor joynt of Mutton: we ha scorn'd (Man).
Lam. Thou speak'st of Paradis.
[Fran.] Or but the snuffes of those healths,
We have lewdly at midnight flang away.
Mor. Ah! but to lick the Glasses.
Enter Surgeon.
Fran. Here comes the Surgeon: What
Hast thou discover'd? smile, smile, and comfort us.
Sur. I am expiring;
Smile they that can: I can find nothing Gentlemen,
Here's nothing can be meat, without a miracle.
Oh that I had my boxes, and my lints now,
My stupes, my tents, and those sweet helps of nature,
What dainty dishes could I make of 'em.