Or cap them, new, with shingles.

MAM. No, good thatch:
Thatch will lie light upon the rafters, Lungs. --
Lungs, I will manumit thee from the furnace;
I will restore thee thy complexion, Puffe,
Lost in the embers; and repair this brain,
Hurt with the fume o' the metals.

FACE. I have blown, sir,
Hard for your worship; thrown by many a coal,
When 'twas not beech; weigh'd those I put in, just,
To keep your heat still even; these blear'd eyes
Have wak'd to read your several colours, sir,
Of the pale citron, the green lion, the crow,
The peacock's tail, the plumed swan.

MAM. And, lastly,
Thou hast descry'd the flower, the sanguis agni?

FACE. Yes, sir.

MAM. Where's master?

FACE. At his prayers, sir, he;
Good man, he's doing his devotions
For the success.

MAM. Lungs, I will set a period
To all thy labours; thou shalt be the master