Brach. About the murder?


Flam. They are sending him to Naples, but I 'll send him to Candy.
Here 's another property too.


Brach. Oh, the doctor!


Flam. A poor quack-salving knave, my lord; one that should have been
lashed for 's lechery, but that he confessed a judgment, had an
execution laid upon him, and so put the whip to a non plus.


Doctor. And was cozened, my lord, by an arranter knave than myself, and
made pay all the colorable execution.


Flam. He will shoot pills into a man's guts shall make them have more
ventages than a cornet or a lamprey; he will poison a kiss; and was
once minded for his masterpiece, because Ireland breeds no poison, to
have prepared a deadly vapour in a Spaniard's fart, that should have
poisoned all Dublin.


Brach. Oh, Saint Anthony's fire!


Doctor. Your secretary is merry, my lord.