Ping. Doctor,
Pray, how many stools may I happily have
This morning by this purgation, already
Taken by me?
Doctor. Doubtless, one hundred, sir.
Ping. Save me, 'twill swinge my bum-gut then: but how
Much fat may it bring away?
Doctor. Peradventure,
Half-a-dozen pounds.
Ping. Love! what dost thou make
Me do? But, worthy doctor, from what parts of
My continual purg'd body is this store
Of fat extracted?
Doctor. Chiefly from your waist
And calves of your legs.
Ping. And how many purges
May make my waist and legs' calves, alias, calves
Of my legs, delightful to her eye, sir?
Doctor. Sir, some ten purges: that is to say, you
Must have a thousand stools to drain your treasure
Of fat totaliter from ye.
Ping. O love!
O Mirida, for thee I daily purge:
For thee I daily stink. I find
I must keep company with the bears, that I
May be able to endure my own stink the better.
Doctor. Come, sir, I think you had best begin to run
Your heats.