Sap. To me it shall not;
I'll be no subject to the greatest Cæsar
Was ever crown'd with laurel, rather than cease
To be a father.[Exit.
Mac. Silence, sir; he wakes.
Anton. Thou kill'st me, Dorothea; oh, Dorothea!
Mac. She's here
Anton. Here! Where? Why do you mock me, sir?
Age on my head hath stuck no white hairs yet,
Yet I'm an old man, a fond doting fool
Upon a woman. I, to buy her beauty,
(In truth I am bewitch'd) offer my life,
And she, for my acquaintance, hazards hers:
Yet, for our equal sufferings, none holds out
A hand of pity.
1 Doct. Let him have some music.
Anton. Hell on your fiddling!
[Starting from his couch.
1 Doct. Take again your bed, sir;
Sleep is a sovereign physic.
Anton. Confusion on your fooleries! Where's the rest
Thy pills and base apothecary drugs
Threaten'd to bring unto me? Out, you impostors!
Quacksalving, cheating mountebanks! your skill
Is to make sound men sick, and sick men kill.
Mac. Oh, be yourself, dear friend.