_Dio._ Come down, ye Dunce, is it not dead?
_Dio._ His throat is cut, and his bowels out.
_Get._ That's all one, _I_ am sure his teeth are in; and for any thing I know, He may have Pigs of his own nature in's Belly.
_Dio._ Come, take him up I say, and see him drest, He is fat, and will be lusty meat: away with him, And get some of him ready for our Dinner.
_Get._ Shall he be roasted whole, And serv'd up in a souce-tub? a portly service, I'll run i'th' wheel my self.
_Max._ Sirrah, leave your prating, And get some piece of him ready presently, We are weary both, and hungry.
_Get._ I'll about it. What an inundation of Brewiss shall I swim in! [_Exit._
_Dio._ Thou art ever dull and melancholy, Cousin, Distrustful of my hopes.
_Max._ Why, can you blame me? Do men give credit to a Jugler?
_Max._ A small one, And as small profit to be hop'd for by her.
_Dio._ Thou art the strangest man; how does thy hurt? The Boar came near you, Sir.
_Dio._ It akes and troubles thee, and that makes thee angry.
_Max._ Not at the pain, but at the practice, Uncle, The butcherly, base custom of our lives now; Had a brave enemies Sword drawn so much from me, Or danger met me in the head o'th' Army, To have blush'd thus in my blood, had been mine honour. But to live base, like Swine-herds, and believe too, To be fool'd out with tales, and old wives dreams, Dreams, when they are drunk.
_Max._ Mistake her? hang her; to be made her Purveyors, To feed her old Chaps; to provide her daily, And bring in Feasts while she sits farting at us, And blowing out her Prophecies at both ends.
_Dio._ Prithee be wise; Dost thou think, _Maximinian_, So great a reverence, and so stai'd a knowledge--
_Max._ Sur-reverence, you would say; what truth? what knowledg? What any thing but eating is good in her? 'Twould make a fool prophesie to be fed continually; What do you get? your labour and your danger; Whilst she sits bathing in her larded fury, Inspir'd with full deep Cups, who cannot prophesie? A Tinker, out of Ale, will give Predictions; But who believes?
_Dio._ She is a holy _Druid_, A woman noted for that faith, that piety, Belov'd of Heaven.
_Max._ Heaven knows, I do not believe it: Indeed I must confess they are excellent Juglers; Their age upon some fools too flings a confidence: But what grounds have they? what elements to work on: Show me but that; the Sieve, and Sheers? a learned one, I have no patience to dispute this Question, 'Tis so ridiculous; I think the Devil does help 'em, Or (rather mark me well) abuse 'em, Uncle; For they are as fit to deal with him; these old women, They are as jump, and squar'd out to his nature--