Flor. Fill my Lord Cassimere his right of wine.
Cass. Cornelia, I give you this dead carowse.
Corn. I thanke your Lordship. [Sing boyre a &c.
Alber. What smoake? smoake and fire.
Cass. What meanes your honour?
Alber. Powder, powder, Etna, sulphure, fier: quench it, quench it.
Flor. I feare the medcine hath distemper'd him.—O villaine Doctor!
Alber. Downe with the battlements, powre water on! I burne, I burne; O give me leave to flie Out of these flames, these fiers that compasse me. [Exit.
Cass. What an unheard off accident is this? Would God, friend Flores, t'had not happen'd here.
Flor. My Lord, 'tis sure some Planet[53] striketh him; No doubt the furie will away againe.