“The real love-drink that awakens love?”
“Ah! I’m the only brewer of it.”
“And—and do you sell it?”
“To those who can afford to buy it, rustic.”
“Good doctor, and what is the charge?”
“Well—hum—well!”
“I’ve half-a-dozen crowns.”
“I’ faith, you’ve hit it.”
Then the doctor went to his gilt carriage, and brought out something singularly like a small wine-bottle.
“I’ faith,” said the stout doctor, taking the crowns, “you will be cured if you drink that.”