Mer. Good brother, go t' your chest.
Chir. How can I know what med'cines to apply,
If that you tell me not where lies your grief?
Mer. Nay, good, now let me go.
Chir. I must not, sir,
Nor will not, truly. Trust me, you will wish
You had confess'd, and suffer'd me in time,
When you shall come to dry-burnt racks of mutton,
The syringe, and the tub.[222]
Mer. So: now enough.
Pray fetch me what you promis'd.
Chir. Are you wild
Or mad? I do protest, I ne'er did meet
A gentleman of such perverseness yet.
I find you just as I was told I should.
Mer. I lose the taking, by my swear, of[223]
As much, whiles that I am receiving this.
Chir. I will not hinder you, if that you do
Prefer your gain before your health.
Mer. Well then,
I pray you tell it out: we tradesmen are not
Masters of our own time.
Chir. What would you have?