Sham. Go too, I'll pass that then.
Lap. Y'are the more happy, Sir,
Would I were past it too:
But being accustom'd to't. It is the better carried.
Sham. Will you forward?
Lap. Then there's your souce, your wherit and your dowst,
Tugs on the hair, your bob o'th' lips, a whelp on't,
I ne'er could find much difference: Now your thump,
A thing deriv'd first from your Hemp-beaters,
Takes a mans wind away, most spitefully:
There's nothing that destroys a Collick like it,
For't leaves no wind i'th' body.
Sham. On Sir, on.
Lap. Pray give me leave, I'm out of breath with thinking on't.
Sham. This is far off yet.
Lap. For the twinge by th' nose,
'Tis certainly unsightly, so my [Table] says,
But helps against the head-ach, wond'rous strangely.
Sham. Is't possible?
Lap. Oh your crush'd nostrils slakes your opilation,
And makes your pent powers flush to wholsome sneezes.