Omnes. Sir!
King. Away.
Eugen. Wash your soule white by wading in the streame Of Christian gore.
King. I will turne Christian.
Dam. Better wolves worry this accursed—
King. Better
Have Bandogs[163] worry all of you, than I
To languish in a torment that feedes on me
As if the Furies bit me. Ile turn Christian,
And, if I doe not, let the Thunder pay
My breach of promise. Cure me, good old man,
And I will call thee father; thou shalt have
A king come kneeling to thee every Morning
To take a blessing from thee, and to heare thee
Salute him as a sonne.
When, when is this wonder?
Eugen. Now; you are well, Sir.
King. Ha!
Eugen. Has your paine left you?
King. Yes; see else, Damianus, Antony, Cosmo; I am well.