“Cursed mountebank! may you and your coach fall into the next ditch.”
“He! he! he! she only marries him because his rich uncle is dead.” This was the malicious remark of Gianetta.
For one moment Adina drew away.
The next moment Nemorino drew closer to Adina.
Adina did not withdraw.
“And pray, who made him die?”
“Why, rustics all, ’twas I.”
“Oh! listen, rustics, listen, if either has an uncle,
Almost dead with—say lumbago, phythsics, or carbuncle,
I’ll kill him, or I’ll cure him, precisely as you say;
But this way, or the other, my friends, you’ll have to pay,
“I, present, now,
Who make this bow,
Am Doctor Dulcamara.
In France I’m known,
I’m famed alone,
In Venice and Ferrara
Such things I’ve done,
That more than one,
Have said I am—no matter;
But this I know,
Where’er I go,
I make no little clatter.
“Oh, rustics, rustics, rustics, if e’er you would grow fat,
To purchase these my bottles ’tis the best thing to be at,
Women—ye maidens who’d in the waist be thin,
Try one bottle; ’tis far better than lacing yourselves in.