King. A vengeance on thy Ventosities and thee!
Enter Eugenius.
Anton. The Bishop, Sir, is come.
King. Christian, thy blood Must give me ease and helpe.
Eugen. Drinke then thy fill:
None of the Fathers that begot sweet Physick,
That Divine Lady, comforter to man,
Invented such a medicine as man's blood;
A drinke so pretious should not be so spilt:
Take mine, and Heaven pardon you the guilt.
King. A Butcher! see his throat cut.
Eugen. I am so farre from shrinking that mine owne hands
Shall bare my throat; and am so farre from wishing
Ill to you that mangle me, that before
My blood shall wash these Rushes,
King, I will cure thee.
1 Phys. You cure him?
King. Speak on, fellow.
Eugen. If I doe not
Restore your limbs to soundnesse, drive the poyson
From the infected part, study your tortures
To teare me peece-meale yet be kept alive.