Doctor. Here, pray, sir, throw this blanket
About you; you will catch your death.
Ping. Look you,
Unreasonable mistress, thus am I
Fain to do every day, because I would
Melt myself into a husband for you:
You may hear my guts at this time boiling
Within me; I am confident they will
Have the same fat as a kettle full of
Black puddings that are over-boiled, and so
Broken.
Doctor. Come, sir, you must needs go to bed.
Ping. That is to say, I must go swim; for that
I do constantly in a sea of sweat.
Mir. Ay, pray, sir, I wou'd not for all the world
You should miscarry.
Ping. Indeed, I look as
If I were with child. Lady, if you have
Any thoughts of going to heaven, have
Mercy on me.
Mir. Farewell, garbage.
Ping. O heat! O fat! O love! what will you
Do with me? [Exit with Doctor.
Phil. Was there ever such sport as we have seen?
Mir. Heaven send thee and I many a fair
Year to be mad together in.