Fool. How far?
Doctor. Through England, Ireland, Scotland, Flanders, France, and Spain,
And now am returned to cure the diseases of Old England again.
Fool. What can you cure?
Doctor. All complaints within and without,
From a cold in your head to a touch of the gout.
If any lady's figure is awry
I'll make her very fitting to pass by.
I'll give a coward a heart if he be willing,
Will make him stand without fear of killing.
Ribs, legs, or arms, whate'er you break, be sure
Of one or all I'll make a perfect cure.
Nay, more than this by far, I will maintain,
If you should lose your head or heart, I'll give it you again.
Then here's a doctor rare, who travels much at home,
So take my pills, I'll cure all ills, past, present, or to come.
I in my time many thousands have directed,
And likewise have as many more dissected,
And I never met a gravedigger who to me objected.
If a man gets nineteen bees in his bonnet, I'll cast twenty of 'em out. I've got in my pocket crutches for lame ducks, spectacles for
blind bumble-bees, pack-saddles and panniers for grasshoppers, and many other needful things. Surely I can cure
this poor man.
Here, Slasher, take a little out of my bottle, and let it run down thy throttle; and if thou beest not quite slain, rise, man, and fight again.
[Slasher rises.]
Slasher. Oh, my back!
Fool. What's amiss with thy back?
Slasher. My back is wounded,
And my heart is confounded;
To be struck out of seven senses into fourscore,
The like was never seen in Old England before.
[Trumpet sounds for St. David.]
Oh, hark! I hear the silver trumpet sound!
It summons me from off this bloody ground.
Down yonder is the way (points);
Farewell, farewell, I can no longer stay.