Doct. That as you think fit—­I’le not betray you.

Dua. To find out this stranger
This true Physician of my mind and manners
Were such a blessing.  He seem’d poor, and may
Perhaps be now in want; would I could find him. 
The Innes I’le search first, then the publick Stewes;
He was of Italy, and that Country breeds not
Precisians that way, but hot Libertines;
And such the most are:  ’tis but a little travail: 
I am unfurnisht too, pray Mr. Doctor,
Can you supply me?

Doct. With what summ you please.

Dua. I will not be long absent.

Doct. That I wish too; For till you have more strength, I would not have you To be too bold.

Dua. Fear not, I will be carefull. [Exeunt.

Enter Leopold, Zabulon, Bravo.

Zab. I have brought him Sir, a fellow that will do it Though Hell stood in his way, ever provided You pay him for’t.

Leop. He has a strange aspect, And looks much like the figure of a hang-man In a table of the Passion.

Zab. He transcends
All precedents, believe it, a flesh’d ruffian,
That hath so often taken the Strappado,
That ’tis to him but as a lofty trick
Is to a tumbler:  he hath perused too
All Dungeons in Portu[g]al, thrice seven years
Rowed in the Galleys for three several murthers,
Though I presume that he has done a hundred,
And scap’t unpunisht.

Leop. He is much in debt to you, You set him off so well.  What will you take Sir To beat a fellow for me, that thus wrong’d me?

Bra. To beat him say you?

Leop. Yes, beat him to lameness, To cut his lips or nose off; any thing, That may disfigure him.

Bra. Let me consider?  Five hundred pistolets for such a service I think were no dear penniworth.

Zab. Five hundred!  Why there are of your Brother-hood in the City, I’le undertake, shall kill a man for twenty.

Bra. Kill him?  I think so; I’le kill any man For half the mony.

Leop. And will you ask more For a sound beating than a murther?

Bra. I Sir,
And with good reason, for a dog that’s dead,
The Spanish proverb says, will never bite: 
But should I beat or hurt him only, he may
Recover, and kill me.

Leo. A good conclusion,
The obduracie of this rascal makes me tender. 
I’le run some other course, there’s your reward
Without the employment.

Bra. For that as you please Sir; When you have need to kill a man, pray use me, But I am out at beating. [Exit.

Zab. What’s to be done then?

Leop. I’le tell thee Zabulon, and make thee privy
To my most near designs:  this stranger, which
Hippolyta so dotes on, was my prisoner
When the last Virgin, I bestowed upon her,
Was made my prize; how he escaped, hereafter
I’le let thee know; and it may be the love
He bears the servant, makes him scorn the Mistris.