_Actus Quartus. Scena Prima._

_Enter_ Francisco, Uncle, _and_ Lance.


_Fran._ Why do you deal thus with him? 'tis unnobly.

_Unc._ Peace Cousin peace, you are too tender of him, he must be
dealt thus with, he must be cured thus, the violence of his disease
_Francisco,_ must not be jested with, 'tis grown infectious, and
now strong Corrosives must cure him.

_Lance._ H'as had a stinger, has eaten off his clothes, the next
his skin comes.

_Unc._ And let it search him to the bones, 'tis better, 'twill make
him feel it.

_Lance._ Where be his noble friends now? will his fantastical
opinions cloath him, or the learned Art of having nothing feed him?

_Unc._ It must needs greedily, for all his friends have flung him
off, he is naked, and where to skin himself again, if I know, or can
devise how he should get himself lodging, his Spirit must be bowed, and
now we have him, have him at that we hoped for.