Ben Jonson

"The Magnetick Lady. Act 3. Scene 4."

            Rut, Palate, Bias, bringing out Interest in a a Chair: Item, Polish following.

    Rut. Come, bring him out into the Air a little:
There set him down. Bow him, yet bow him more,
Dash that same Glass of Water in his Face:
Now tweak him by the Nose, Hard, harder yet:
If it but call the Blood up from the Heart,
I ask no more. See, what a fear can do!
Pinch him in the Nape of the Neck now; nip him, nip him.

    Ite. He feels, there's life in him.

    Pal. He groans, and stirs.

    Rut. Tel him the Captain's gone.

    Int. Ha!

    Pal. He's gone, Sir.

    Rut. Gi' him a box, hard, on his left Ear.

    Int. O!

    Rut. How do you feel yourself?

    Int. Sore, Sore.

    Rut. But where?

    Int. I' my Neck.

    Rut. I nipt him there.

    Int. And i' my Head.

    Rut. I box'd him twice, or thrice, to move those Sinews.

    Bia. I swear you did.

    Pol. What a brave Man's a Doctor,
To beat one into Health! I thought his blows
Would e'en ha' kill'd him: he did feel no more
Than a great Horse.

    Int. Is the wild Captain gone?
That Man of murther?

    Bia. All is calm and quiet.

    Int. Say you so, Cousen Bias? Then all's well.

    Pal. How quickly a Man is lost!

    Bia. And soon recover'd!

    Pol. Where there are means, and Doctors, learned Men,
And their Apothecaries, who are not now,
(As Chawcer says) their friendship to begin.
Well, could they teach each other how to win
I'their swath Bands --

    Rut. Leave your poetry, good Gossip.
Your Chawcer's Clouts, and wash your Dishes with 'em,
We must rub up the Roots of his Disease,
And crave your prace awhile, or else your absence.

    Pol. Nay, I know when to hold my peace.

    Rut. Then do it.
Gi' me your Hand, sir Moath. Let's feel your Pulse.
It is a pursiness, a kind of stoppage,
Or tumour o' the Purse, for want of exercise,
That you are troubled with: some ligatures
I'th neck of your vesica, or Marsupium,
Are so close knit, that you cannot evaporate:
And therefore you must use relaxatives.
Beside, they say, you are so restive grown,
You cannot but with trouble put your Hand
Into your Pocket, to discharge a Reckoning.
And this we Sons of Physick do call Chiragra,
A kind of Cramp, or Hand-gout. You shall purge for't.

    Ite. Indeed your Worship should do well t'advise him
To cleanse his Body, all the three high-ways;
That is, by Sweat, Purge, and Plebotomy.

    Rut. You say well, learned Tim, I'll first prescribe him,
To give his Purse a purge once, twice a week
At Dice, or Cards: And when the weather is open,
Sweat at a Bowling-Alley, or let Blood
I'the lending Vein, and bleed a matter of fifty,
Or threescore Ounces at a time. Then put
Your thumbs under your Girdle, and have some body
Else pull out your Purse for you, till with more ease,
And a good habit, you can do it your self.
And then be sure always to keep good Diet;
And h' your Table furnish'd from one end
Unto tother: It is good for the Eyes;
But feed you on one dish still, ha' your Diet-drink
Ever in Bottles ready, which must come
From the King's-head: I will prescribe you nothing,
But what I'll take before you mine own self:
That is my course with all my Patients.

    Pal. Very methodical, Secundum Artem.

    Bia. And very safe pro captu recipientis.

    Pol. All errant learned Men, how they 'spute Latin!

    Rut. I had it of a Jew, and a great rabbi,
Who every morning cast his Cup of White-wine
With Sugar, and by the residence i'the bottom,
Would make report of any Chronick malady,
Such as Sir Moath's is, being an oppilation,
In that you call the Neck o' the Money-bladder,
Most anatomical, and by dissection.

                [Enter Nurse.

    Keep. O, Mr. Doctor, and his 'Pothecary!
Good Mr. Item, and my Mistriss Polish!
We need you all above! She's fall'n again,
In a worse fit then ever.

    Pol.

Who?     Keep. Your charge.

    Pol. Come away Gentlemen.

    Int. This fit with the Doctor,
Hath mended me past expectation.

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