Mos. His pulse beats slow, and dull.

Corb. Good symptoms still.

Mos. And from his brain—

Corb. I conceive you; good.

Mos. Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum,
Forth the resolved corners of his eyes.

Corb. Is’t possible? Yet I am better, ha!
How does he, with the swimming of his head?

Mos. O, sir, ’tis past the scotomy; he now
Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort:
You hardly can perceive him, that he breathes.

Corb. Excellent, excellent! sure I shall outlast him:
This makes me young again, a score of years.

Mos. I was a coming for you, sir.

Corb. Has he made his will?
What has he given me?

Mos. No, sir.

Corb. Nothing! ha?

Mos. He has not made his will, sir.

Corb. Oh, oh, oh!
What then did Voltore, the lawyer, here?

Mos. He smelt a carcase, sir, when he but heard
My master was about his testament;
As I did urge him to it for your good—

Corb. He came unto him, did he? I thought so.

Mos. Yes, and presented him this piece of plate.

Corb. To be his heir?

Mos. I do not know, sir.

Corb. True:
I know it too.

Mos. By your own scale, sir.

[Aside.

Corb. Well,
I shall prevent him, yet. See, Mosca, look,
Here, I have brought a bag of bright chequines,
Will quite weigh down his plate.

Mos. [taking the bag.] Yea, marry, sir.
This is true physic, this your sacred medicine;
No talk of opiates, to this great elixir!

Corb. ’Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile.

Mos. It shall be minister’d to him, in his bowl.

Corb. Ay, do, do, do.