Brach. O, the doctor!
Flam. A poor quack-salving knave, my lord; one that should have been lashed for's lechery, but that he confessed a judgment, had an execution laid upon him, and so put the whip to a non plus.
Doc. And was cozened, my lord, by an arranter knave than myself, and made pay all the colourable execution.
Flam. He will shoot pills into a man's guts shall make them have more ventages than a cornet or a lamprey; he will poison a kiss; and was once minded, for his master-piece, because Ireland breeds no poison, to have prepared a deadly vapour in a Spaniard's fart, that should have poisoned all Dublin.
Brach. O, Saint Anthony's fire.
Doc. Your secretary is merry, my lord.
Flam. O thou cursed antipathy to nature!—Look, his eye's bloodshed, like a needle a surgeon stitcheth a wound with.—Let me embrace thee, toad, and love thee, O thou abominable loathsome[39] gargarism, that will fetch up lungs, lights, heart, and liver, by scruples!
Brach. No more.—I must employ thee, honest doctor:
You must to Padua, and by the way,
Use some of your skill for us.
Doc. Sir, I shall.
Brach. But, for Camillo?
Flam. He dies this night, by such a politic strain,
Men shall suppose him by's own engine slain.
But for your duchess' death—
Doc. I'll make her sure.
Brach. Small mischiefs are by greater made secure.
Flam. Remember this, you slave; when knaves come to preferment, they rise as gallowses are raised i' the Low Countries, one upon another's shoulders. [Exeunt Brachiano, Flamineo, and Doctor.