PHA. In my conceit that's like the man that inquired who saw his ass, when himself rid on him.
LIN. O, my heart beats so! fie, fie, fie, fie!
MEN. I am so weary; so, so, so, so.
COM. SEN. I prythee, Lingua, make an end.
LIN. Let me begin first, I beseech you; but if you will needs have the end first—thus 'tis: the commonwealth of Microcosm at this instant suffers the pangs of death, 'tis gasping for breath. Will you have all? 'tis poisoned.
PHA. What apothecary durst be so bold as make such a confection? ha, what poison is't?
LIN. A golden crown.
MEN. I mistake; or else Galen, in his book "De Sanitate Tuenda," commends gold as restorative.
COM. SEN. Lingua, express yourself.
MEN. Madam, if you want breath, let me help you out.