_King_. A vengeance on thy Ventosities and thee!
_Enter Eugenius_.
_Anton_. The Bishop, Sir, is come.
_King_. Christian, thy blood
Must give me ease and helpe.
_Eugen_. Drinke then thy fill:
None of the Fathers that begot sweet Physick,
That Divine Lady, comforter to man,
Invented such a medicine as man's blood;
A drinke so pretious should not be so spilt:
Take mine, and Heaven pardon you the guilt.
_King_. A Butcher! see his throat cut.
_Eugen_. I am so farre from shrinking that mine owne hands
Shall bare my throat; and am so farre from wishing
Ill to you that mangle me, that before
My blood shall wash these Rushes,
King, I will cure thee.