Dem. 'Tis true, must perish, Our lives are but our marches to our graves, How dost thou now Lieutenant?
Lieu. Faith 'tis true, Sir, We are but spans, and Candles ends.
Leo. He's finely mortified.
Dem. Thou art heart whole yet I see he alters strangely, And that apace too; I saw it this morning in him, When he poor man, I dare swear—
Lieu. No believ't, Sir, I never felt it.
Dem. Here lies the pain now: how he is swel'd?
1 Phy. The Impostume
Fed with a new malignant humour now,
Will grow to such a bigness, 'tis incredible,
The compass of a Bushel will not hold it.
And with such a Hell of torture it will rise too—
Dem. Can you endure me touch it?
Lieu. Oh, I beseech you, Sir: I feel you sensibly ere you come near me.
Dem. He's finely wrought, he must be cut, no Cure else, And suddenly, you see how fast he blows out.