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.
TRUE: Yes, make meal of the mill-stones.
MOR: May all the botches and burns that he has cured on others
break out upon him.
TRUE: And he now forget the cure of them in himself, sir: or, if
he do remember it, let him have scraped all his linen into lint
for't, and have not a rag left him to set up with.
MOR: Let him never set up again, but have the gout in his hands
for ever! Now, no more, sir.
TRUE: O, that last was too high set; you might go less with him,
i'faith, and be revenged enough: as, that he be never able to
new-paint his pole--
MOR: Good sir, no more, I forgot myself.
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