De C. 'Tis his last night with mankind; the poison, sir,
Will do't so subtlely: whilst he but holds the
Knife, the least warmth attracts, and so dispreads
Itself through his blood and spirits. Not any
Struggling for't with nature; his life steals from
Him in a gentle slumber.
Duke. Grow in my bosom, till you spread to the first honours
Of your wish. My fortune is too narrow for your
Merits, to whom I owe it and all my power, brave friend. [Exeunt.
Enter Steward, Butler, Cook, and Maids.
Stew. Come, my masters: the great ones shall not
Have all to themselves: we'll have a civil
Bout or two to get us a stomach to bedward,
My sweethearts.
Cook. Noble master steward!
Cook. The fire of my respects shall ne'er go out unto you.
But. Nor mine be quench'd.
Stew. Here, cook, here's a bit for you to lick your lips at:
And here's a clean napery for you, butler. [Gives each a wench.
Take it. [A dance.
Stew. So, so; I am almost spent; every man to his function.