Leo.  Upon him now Boys, And do it most demurely.

1 Gent.  How now Lieutenant?

Lieu.  I thank ye Gentlemen.

1 Gent.  ’Life, how looks this man?  How dost thou good Lieutenant?

2 Gent.  I ever told ye
This man was never cur’d, I see it too plain now;
How do you feel your self? you look not perfect,
How dull his eye hangs?

1 Gent.  That may be discontent.

2 Gent.  Believe me friend, I would not suffer now The tith of those pains this man feels; mark his forehead What a cloud of cold dew hangs upon’t?

Lieu.  I have it, Again I have it; how it grows upon me!  A miserable man I am.

Leo.  Ha, ha, ha, A miserable man thou shall be, This is the tamest Trout I ever tickl’d.

Enter 2 Physicians.

1 Phy.  This way he went.

2 Phy.  Pray Heaven we find him living, He’s a brave fellow, ’tis pity he should perish thus.

1 Phy.  A strong hearted man, and of a notable sufferance.

Lieu.  Oh, oh.

1 Gent.  How now? how is it man?

Lieu.  Oh Gentlemen, Never so full of pain.

2 Gent.  Did I not tell ye?

Lieu.  Never so full of pain, Gentlemen.

1 Phy.  He is here; How do you, Sir?

2 Phy.  Be of good comfort, Souldier, The Prince has sent us to you.

Lieu.  Do you think I may live?

2 Phy.  He alters hourly, strangely.

1 Phy.  Yes, you may live:  but—­

Leo.  Finely butted, Doctor.

1 Gent.  Do not discourage him.

1 Phy.  He must be told truth, ’Tis now too late to trifle.

Enter Demetrius, and Gent.

2 Gent.  Here the Prince comes.

Dem.  How now Gentlemen?

2 Gent.  Bewailing, Sir, a Souldier, And one I think, your Grace will grieve to part with, But every living thing—­

Dem.  ’Tis true, must perish, Our lives are but our marches to our graves, How dost thou now Lieutenant?

Lieu.  Faith ’tis true, Sir, We are but spans, and Candles ends.

Leo.  He’s finely mortified.

Dem.  Thou art heart whole yet I see he alters strangely, And that apace too; I saw it this morning in him, When he poor man, I dare swear—­

Lieu.  No believ’t, Sir, I never felt it.

Dem.  Here lies the pain now:  how he is swel’d?

1 Phy.  The Impostume
Fed with a new malignant humour now,
Will grow to such a bigness, ’tis incredible,
The compass of a Bushel will not hold it. 
And with such a Hell of torture it will rise too—­

Dem.  Can you endure me touch it?