LXII.  THE QUACK. (238)

John Tobin, 1770-1804, a solicitor, was born at Salisbury, England, and died on shipboard near Cork.  He wrote several comedies, the most popular being “The Honeymoon,” from which this extract is taken; it was published in 1805. ###

Scene—­The Inn.  Enter hostess followed by Lampedo, a Quack Doctor.

Host.  Nay, nay; another fortnight. 
       Lamp.  It can’t be. 
       The man’s as well as I am:  have some mercy! 
       He hath been here almost three weeks already. 
Host.  Well, then, a week. 
Lamp.  We may detain him a week. (Enter Balthazar, the patient,
       from behind, in his nightgown, with a drawn sword.)
       You talk now like a reasonable hostess,
       That sometimes has a reckoning with her conscience. 
Host.  He still believes he has an inward bruise. 
Lamp.  I would to heaven he had! or that he’d slipped
       His shoulder blade, or broke a leg or two,
       (Not that I bear his person any malice,)
       Or luxed an arm, or even sprained his ankle! 
Host.  Ay, broken anything except his neck. 
Lamp.  However, for a week I’ll manage him,
       Though he had the constitution of a horse—­
       A farrier should prescribe for him. 
Balth.  A farrier! (Aside. )
       Lamp.  To-morrow, we phlebotomize again;
       Next day, my new-invented patent draught;
       Then, I have some pills prepared;
       On Thursday, we throw in the bark; on Friday—­
Balth. (Coming forward.) Well, sir, on Friday—­what, on Friday?  Come,
       Proceed. 
Lamp.  Discovered!

   They (Host.,Lamp.) fall on their knees.

Host.  Mercy, noble sir! 
Lamp.  We crave your mercy! 
Balth.  On your knees? ’tis well! 
       Pray! for your time is short. 
Host.  Nay, do not kill us. 
Balth.  You have been tried, condemned, and only wait
       For execution.  Which shall I begin with? 
Lamp.  The lady, by all means, sir. 
Balth.  Come, prepare. (To the hostess.)
Host.  Have pity by the weakness of my sex! 
Balth.  Tell me, thou quaking mountain of gross flesh,
       Tell me, and in a breath, how many poisons—­
       If you attempt it—­(To Lampedo, who is making off)
              you have cooked up for me? 
Host.  None, as I hope for mercy! 
Balth.  Is not thy wine a poison? 
Host.  No indeed, sir;
       ’T is not, I own, of the first quality;
       But—­
Balth.  What? 
Host.  I always give short measure, sir,
       And ease my conscience that way. 
Balth.  Ease your conscience! 
       I’ll ease your conscience for you. 
Host.  Mercy, sir! 
Balth.  Rise, if thou canst, and hear me. 
Host.  Your commands, sir? 
Balth.  If, in five minutes, all things are prepared