O, you say well.
But I much marvel that your lordship, having
Rich tire about you, should at these early hours
the golden slumber of repose.
'Tis most strange,
Nature should be so conversant with pain,
I hold it ever,
Virtue and cunning were endowments greater
Than nobleness and riches: careless heirs
the two latter darken and expend;
But immortality attends the former.
Making a man a god. 'Tis known,
Have studied physic, through which secret art,
By turning o'er authorities, I have,
Together with my
practise, made familiar
To me and to my aid the blest infusions
That dwell in vegetives, in metals, stones;
I can speak of the disturbances
That nature works, and of her cures; which doth give me
A more content
in course of true delight
Than to be thirsty after tottering honour,
Or tie my treasure up in silken bags,
please the fool and death.
Your honour has through Ephesus pour'd forth
Your charity, and hundreds call themselves
who by you have been restored:
And not your knowledge, your personal pain, but even
Your purse, still
open, hath built Lord Cerimon
Such strong renown as time shall ne'er decay.
Enter two or three Servants with a chest
So; lift there.
What is that?
Sir, even now
Did the sea toss upon our shore this chest:
'Tis of some wreck.
Set 't down, let's look upon't.
'Tis like a coffin, sir.
Whate'er it be,
'Tis wondrous heavy. Wrench it open straight:
If the sea's stomach be o'ercharged with
'Tis a good constraint of fortune it belches upon us.
'Tis so, my lord.
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