BOMELIO.
Let-a me see him. You hear me?
Ah, dat vel: turn heter; no like it truly.
PENULO.
By the mass, this physic is an excellent art;
It picks such a deal of gold out of every part. [Aside.
BOMELIO.
Vell, vell; me now see vat this matter mean.
Nobel prince, dis ting be done by mashic clean.
'Tis true dat me tell, me perceive it plain:
No natural 'pediment, but cunshering certain.
DUKE.
O double, treble woe! my son, how cometh this?
He saith by magic it is wrought, unnatural it is.
Dost thou remember aught, that so it should appear,
Or can'st thou any reason make it should be true we hear?
What means he by these signs? can any one express?
PENULO.
If you give me leave, sir, to say as I guess,
Methinks he should mean there was some old man,
That threatened to be revenged on him then.
'Tis so you may see: he confirms it again.
DUKE.
Condemned be that man to everlasting pain,
Perpetual his annoy, continual his unrest!
O, that I had him here to plague as I thought best!
But, learned sir, is there no way, is there no remedy?
Can there be found out no device the charm to mollify?
Good sir, if anything, whatever that it be,
Let spare no cost, my will is such, I will allow it thee.
BOMELIO.
Indeed, and by my trot', dar is o' thing,
But me am vera let' de same to bring;
Yit wit'out dat me am seawer,[117] me tell,
Your son again be never more well.
DUKE.
Good father, tell it me: whatever should befall,
Mine be the danger, mine the loss, you shall be pleased for all.
In any case, express it then.
BOMELIO.
Fait', then me will.
If you no have your son be so dumb still.
You mus' get-a de grand enemy dat he now have,
And in de tenderest part his dearest blood crave:
Derwit' mus' you wash his tongue-a string.
Noting but dat will his speech bring.
DUKE.
The dearest blood in the tenderest part
Of his great enemy? O, grief to my heart!
Will nothing else cure his disease?