TRUE: Ay, and if he would swallow all his balls for pills, let not
them purge him.

MOR: Let his warming pan be ever cold.

TRUE: A perpetual frost underneath it, sir.

MOR: Let him never hope to see fire again.

TRUE: But in hell, sir.

MOR: His chairs be always empty, his scissors rust, and his combs
mould in their cases.

TRUE: Very dreadful that! And may he lose the invention, sir, of
carving lanterns in paper.

MOR: Let there be no bawd carted that year, to employ a bason of
his: but let him be glad to eat his sponge for bread.

TRUE: And drink lotium to it, and much good do him.

MOR: Or, for want of bread--

TRUE: Eat ear-wax, sir. I'll help you. Or, draw his own teeth,
and add them to the lute-string.

MOR: No, beat the old ones to powder, and make bread of them.