Ger. The Devil you should do, by your villanies, Now he that has the best way, wring it from him.
Hig. I undertake it: turn him to the Sun boyes; Give me a fine sharp rush, will ye confess yet?
Hem. Ye have rob'd me already, now you'le murder me.
Hig. Murder your nose a little: does your head purge Sir? To it again, 'twill do ye good.
Hem. Oh, I cannot tell you any thing.
Ger. Proceed then.
Hig. There's maggots in your nose, I'le fetch 'em out Sir.
Hem. O my head breaks.
Hig. The best thing for the rheum Sir, That falls into your worships eyes.
Hem. Hold, hold.