Bawdb. Then pray for me too.
1 Doct. How does your grace now feele your selfe?
Thier. What's that?
1 Doct. Nothing at all Sir, but your fancy.
Thier. Tell me,
Can ever these eyes more shut up in slumbers,
Assure my soule there is sleepe? is there night
And rest for humane labors? do not you
And all the world as I do, out stare time,
And live like funerall lampes never extinguisht?
Is there a grave, and do not flatter me,
Nor feare to tell me truth; and in that grave
Is there a hope I shall sleepe, can I die,
Are not my miseries immortall? o
The happinesse of him that drinkes his water
After his weary day, and sleepes for ever,
Why do you crucifie me thus with faces,
And gaping strangely upon one another,
When shall I rest?
2 Doct. O Sir, be patient.
Thier. Am I not patient? have I not endur'd
More then a maingy dog among your dosses?
Am I not now your patient? yee can make
Unholesome fooles sleepe for a garded foote-cloth;
Whores for a hot sin offering; yet I must crave
That feede ye, and protect ye, and proclame ye,
Because my powre is far above your searching,
Are my diseases so? can ye cure none
But those of equall ignorance, dare ye kill me?
1 Doct. We do beseech your grace be more reclam'd,
This talke doth but distemper you.
Thier. Well, I will die
In spight of all your potions; one of you sleepe,
Lie downe and sleepe here, that I may behold
What blessed rest it is my eyes are robde of:
See, he can sleepe, sleepe any where, sleepe now,
When he that wakes for him can never slumber,
I'st not a dainty ease?
2 Doct. Your grace shall feele it.