as now? it takes, believe it;
How like an Ass he looks?

_Lieu_. I feel no great pain,
At least, I think I do not; yet I feel sensibly
I grow extreamly faint: how cold I sweat now!

_Leo_. So, so, so.

_Lieu_. And now 'tis ev'n too true, I feel a pricking,
A pricking, a strange pricking: how it tingles!
And as it were a stitch too: the Prince told me,
And every one cri'd out I was a dead man;
I had thought I had been as well--

_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