Car. That I will.
Kath. How the devil steels our brows after doing ill!
Frank. My stomach and my sight are taken from me;
All is not well within me.
Car. I believe thee, boy; I that have seen so many moons clap their horns on other men’s foreheads to strike them sick, yet mine to scape and be well; I that never cast away a fee upon urinals, but am as sound as an honest man’s conscience when he’s dying; I should cry out as thou dost, “All is not well within me,” felt I but the bag of thy imposthumes. Ah, poor villain! ah, my wounded rascal! all my grief is, I have now small hope of thee.
Frank. Do the surgeons say my wounds are dangerous, then?
Car. Yes, yes, and there’s no way with thee but one.
Frank. Would he were here to open them!
Car. I’ll go to fetch him; I’ll make an holiday to see thee as I wish.
Frank. A wondrous kind old man!
Win. [Aside to Frank.] Your sin’s the blacker
So to abuse his goodness.—[Aloud] Master, how do you?