You grinned and twisted with a grace, and clung to yonder oak.
LACON.
That I've forgot—but I have not, how once Eumares tied
You to that selfsame oak-trunk, and tanned your unclean hide.
COMETAS.
There's some one ill—of heartburn. You note it, I presume,
Morson? Go quick, and fetch a squill from some old beldam's tomb.
LACON.
I think I'm stinging somebody, as Morson too perceives—
Go to the river and dig up a clump of sowbread-leaves.