Arg. No, no, certainly not.
Mr. Pur. I must now tell you that I give you up to your bad constitution, to the intemperament of your intestines, to the corruption of your blood, to the acrimony of your bile, and to the feculence of your humours.
Toi. It serves you right.
Arg. Alas!
Mr. Pur. And I will have you before four days in an incurable state.
Arg. Ah! mercy on me!
Mr. Pur. You shall fall into bradypepsia.
Arg. Mr. Purgon!
Mr. Pur. From bradypepsia into dyspepsia.
Arg. Mr. Purgon!