TOSS.  Sir, let me but have him a little in cure,
To put my poor practice of physic in ure,
And I dare warrant ye, with a purgation or twain,
I’ll quickly rid him out of all this pain.

PROD.  I think a glister were better.

DICER.  Nay, rather a suppository.

TOSS.  Nay, then, what say you to letting of blood?

DICER.  I think that some of these should do him good. 
Ask the physician.

MON.  Prodigality?

PROD.  Ho!

MON.  I am sick.

PROD.  Where, man?

MON.  Faith, here, in my belly. 
It swells, I assure ye, out of all measure.

PROD.  Take heed it grow not to a timpany.

MON.  And if it do, what is the danger then?

PROD.  A consumption.

MON.  A consumption? marry, God forbid, man.

TOSS.  What think you now of Tenacity? 
Was he your friend or your foe?

MON.  Ah, that wretch Tenacity hath brought me to all this woe. 
’Twas he, indeed, that sought to destroy me,
In that he would never use or employ[410] me: 
But, Prodigality, sweet Prodigality,
Help to provide some present remedy: 
Let me not be thus miserably spilt;
Ease me of this, and use me as thou wilt. 
Yet had I rather live in state bare and thin,
Than in this monstrous plight that now I am in: 
So fatty, so foggy, so out of all measure,
That in myself I take no kind of pleasure.

PROD.  Why, rise up then quickly, and let us be gone.

MON.  Friends, you must help me, I cannot rise alone.

DICER.  Come on, my sweet Money, we must have a mean
To turn this foggy fat to a finer lean.

MON.  The sooner the better.

TOSS.  Nay, Money, doubt not, but by sweat or by vomit
I warrant thee, boy, shortly thou shalt be rid from it.

PROD.  Rid, quotha? if shaving, or boxing, or scouring,
Or ’nointing, or scraping, or purging, or blood-letting,
Or rubbing, or paring, or chafing, or fretting,
Or ought else will rid it, he shall want no ridding. [Aside. 
Come on, Money, let’s be jogging!

Exeunt.

SCENE II.

    PRODIGALITY, DICER, &c., to whom enter CONSTABLE,
    making hue and cry, and HOST.[411]

CON.  Thieves, neighbours, thieves! come forth, beset the country.

PROD.  Hark! list a while, what might this clamour be?

DICER.  ’Zwounds, we are undone, Prodigality;
The constables come after with hue and cry.

TOSS.  O Cerberus, what shall we do?

PROD.  Stand back, lie close, and let them pass by.

[They retire.

CON.  Thieves, thieves!  O vile, O detestable deed! 
Thieves, neighbours! come forth, away, abroad with speed. 
Where dwell these constables?

HOST. Why? what’s the matter, friend, I pray?