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1 Alus. Why heart's ease? Peter. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays - My heart is full of woe: 0, play me some merry dump, to comfort me.
2 Mus. Not a dump we; 'tis no time to play now.
Peter. You will not then?
Peter. No money, on my faith; but the gleek: I will give you the minstrel.
1 Mus. Then will I give you the serving-creature.
Peter. Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate. I will carry no crotchets: I'll re you, I'll fa you; Do you note me?
1 Mus. An you re us, and fa us, you note us.
2 Mus. Pray you, put up your dagger, and put out your wit.
Peter. Then have at you with my wit; I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger:- Answer me like men:
When griping grief the heart doth wound,
Why, silver sound? why, musick with her silver sound? What say you, Simon Catling?
1 Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet
Peter. Pretty! What say you, Hugh Rebeck?
2 Mus. I say-silver sound, because musicians sound for silver.
Peter. Pretty too!—What say you, James Soundpost?
3 Mus. 'Faith, I know not what to say.
Peter. O, I cry you mercy! you are the singer: I will say for you. It is—musick with her silver sound, because such fellows as you have seldom gold for sounding:
Then musick with her silver sound,
1 Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same?
2 Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. [Exeunt.
-How now, Balthasar?
Bal. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill;
you did leave it for my office, sir.
Bal. Pardon me, sir, I will not leave you thus:
Tush, thou art deceiv’d;
Bal. No, my good lord.
No matter: Get thee gone,
Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.
Enter Apothecary. Ap.
Who calls so loud? Rom. Come hither, man.-I see, that thou art
poor; Hold, there is forty ducats: let me have A dram of poison; such soon-speeding geer As will disperse itself through all the veins, That the life-weary taker may fall dead; And that the trunk may be discharg'd of breath As violently, as hasty powder fir'd Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb. Ap. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's
la w Is death, to any he that utters them. Rom. Art thou so bare, and full of wretched
Ap. My poverty, but not my will, consents.