Here, I have brought a bag of bright chequines,
Will quite weigh down his plate.

MOS [TAKING THE BAG.]: Yea, marry, sir.
This is true physic, this your sacred medicine,
No talk of opiates, to this great elixir!

CORB: 'Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile.

MOS: It shall be minister'd to him, in his bowl.

CORB: Ay, do, do, do.

MOS: Most blessed cordial!
This will recover him.

CORB: Yes, do, do, do.

MOS: I think it were not best, sir.

CORB: What?

MOS: To recover him.

CORB: O, no, no, no; by no means.

MOS: Why, sir, this
Will work some strange effect, if he but feel it.

CORB: 'Tis true, therefore forbear; I'll take my venture: