Ye say true, but he lov’d to feed well also,
     And that me-thinks—­

     Lop.

     From another mans Trencher, Sir,
     And there he found it season’d with small charge: 
     There he would play the Tyrant, and would devour ye
     More than the Graves he made; at home he liv’d
     Like a Camelion, suckt th’ Air of misery,

     [Table out, Standish, Paper, Stools.

     And grew fat by the Brewis of an Egg-shell,
     Would smell a Cooks-shop, and go home and surfeit. 
     And be a month in fasting out that Fever.

     Bar.

     These are good Symptoms:  do’s he lye so sick say ye?

     Lop.

     Oh, very sick.

     Bar.

     And chosen me Executor?

     Lop.

     Only your Worship.

     Bar.

     No hope of his amendment?

     Lop.

     None, that we find.

     Bar.

     He hath no Kinsmen neither?

     Lop.

     ’Truth, very few,

     Bar.

     His mind will be the quieter. 
     What Doctors has he?

     Lop.

     There’s none, Sir, he believes in.

     Bar.

     They are but needless things, in such extremities. 
     Who draws the good mans Will?

     Lop.

     Marry that do I, Sir,
     And to my grief.

     Bar.

     Grief will do little now, Sir,
     Draw it to your comfort, Friend, and as I counsel ye,
     An honest man, but such men live not always: 
     Who are about him?

     Lop.

     Many, now he is passing,
     That would pretend to his love, yes, and some Gentlemen
     That would fain counsel him, and be of his Kindred;
     Rich men can want no Heirs, Sir.

     Bar.

     They do ill,
     Indeed they do, to trouble him; very ill, Sir. 
     But we shall take a care.

     Enter Diego, in a Bed, Milanes, Arsenio, and Parishioners.

     Lop.

     Will ye come near, Sir? 
     ’Pray ye bring him out; now ye may see in what state: 
     Give him fresh Air.

     Bar.

     I am sorry, Neighbour Diego,
     To find ye in so weak a state.

     Die.

     Ye are welcome,
     But I am fleeting, Sir.

     Bar.

     Me-thinks he looks well,
     His colour fresh, and strong, his eyes are chearful.

     Lop.

     A glimmering before death, ’tis nothing else, Sir,
     Do you see how he fumbles with the Sheet? do ye note that?