Ping. O me! nothing cou'd e'er a made
A footman of me but love. Well, I must
Put on my pumps.
Phil. By this light, this is the
Pleasantest scene as e'er I saw.
Ping. Nay, doctor,
If you mean I should run, lend me your hand
To help me up. [Puts on nightcaps.
Now, in the name of love,
I most unwillingly start.
Phil. S'death! he runs
Like a duke. [He runs round, and sometimes goes out to untruss.
Mir. His stools come very quickly upon
Him, one after another.
Ping. I must run
With my breeches in my hand, my purge visits
My bum-gut so intolerably often.
Doctor. Now, sir, for a cheerful loose.
Ping. By my heart,
Master Doctor, I wonder at your cruelty,
To ask a cheerful loose of me; am not
I loos'd sufficiently by
Your furious purgations?
Enter Lean-man and his Tailor.