Act. 2. Scaen. 6.
How do you? how is't, Sir?
Cut off i'the flower o' my age, wi∣dow.
Not so, Sir, you are old, neighbour, God he knows.
I' the very •lower, i'faith. That damn'd quacksalver.
He look'd like a rogue; a man might know him for a rogue, by his very eyes. Take comfort, Sir; ye know we must all die either sooner or later. Our life is compared to a flower; and a flower is sub∣ject to uncertainty, as M. Knockdown ob∣serves.
O the torture of such a tongue! Would I were dead already.
Alas, good man! his tongue, I warrant ye, is hot: look how he raves, daughter! I have heard, indeed, that many rave when they are poison'd. Think o' your sins, Sir.
I prithee molest me not; there's none of 'um worth thinking of. I'm hotter then a dozen of Fevers: give me a cup of Sack there: Shall I die thirsty?
By no means, M. Blade. Fellow, take heed what ye give him: he must ha' none; it breeds inflammations.
I'll never repent without a cup of Sack. Do, do, chuse whether you'll ha'me sav'd or no.
For his souls sake then, I'll drink to him in a cup of Sack
To my good journey widow. Sir∣rah, fill me a brimmer. Here, Tabytha.