Longa. Thou learned Frenchman, try thy skill on me,
More ugly than I am, I cannot be.
Montr. Cure me, and Montrose wealth shall all be thine.
Andel. ’Tis all one for dat! Shall do presently, madam, prea mark me. Monsieur, shamp dis in your two shaps, so, now Monsieur Long-villain; dis so; now dis; fear noting, ’tis eshelent medicine! so, now cram dis into your guts, and belly; so, now snap away dis whoreson four divela; Ha, ha, is no point good? [Pulls Longaville’s horns off.
Athelst. This is most strange.
Was’t painful, Longaville?
Longa. Ease took them off, and there remains no pain.
Agrip. O try thy sacred physic upon me.
Andel. No by my trat, ’tis no possibla, ’tis no possibla, al de mattra, all de ting, all de substance, all de medicine, be among his and his belly: ’tis no possibla, till me prepare more.
Athelst. Prepare it then, and thou shalt have more gold
From England’s coffers, than thy life can waste.
Andel. I must buy many costly tings, dat grow in Arabia, in Asia, and America, by my trat ’tis no possibla till anoder time, no point.