Flam. O thou cursed antipathy to nature! Look, his eye 's bloodshot,
like a needle a surgeon stitcheth a wound with. Let me embrace thee,
toad, and love thee, O thou abominable, loathsome gargarism, that will
fetch up lungs, lights, heart, and liver, by scruples!


Brach. No more.--I must employ thee, honest doctor:
You must to Padua, and by the way,
Use some of your skill for us.


Doctor. Sir, I shall.


Brach. But for Camillo?


Flam. He dies this night, by such a politic strain,
Men shall suppose him by 's own engine slain.
But for your duchess' death----


Doctor. I 'll make her sure.


Brach. Small mischiefs are by greater made secure.