Feth. Oh Pox, an a Man were sure of that
now- Will. Behold, here's Demonstration- [Harlequin stabs himself, and
falls as dead. Feth. Hold, hold, why, what the Devil is the Fellow
mad? Blunt. Why, do'st think he has hurt himself? Feth. Hurt himself!
why, he's murder'd, Man; 'tis flat Felo de se, in any ground in
England, if I understand Law, and I have been a Justice o'th' Peace.
Will. See, Gentlemen, he's dead- Feth. Look ye there now, I'll be gone
lest I be taken as an Accessary. [Going out. Will. Coffin him, inter
him, yet after four and twenty Hours, as many Drops of this divine
Elixir give him new Life again; this will recover whole Fields of
slain, and all the Dead shall rise and fight again- 'twas this that
made the Roman Legions numerous, and now makes France so formidable,
and this alone- may be the Occasion of the loss of Germany. [Pours in
Harlequin's Wound, he rises. Feth. Why this Fellow's the Devil, Ned,
that's for certain. Blunt. Oh plague, a damn'd Conjurer, this- Will.
Come, buy this Coward's Comfort, quickly buy; what Fop would be
abus'd, mimick'd and scorn'd, for fear of Wounds can be so easily
cured? Who is't wou'd bear the Insolence and Pride of domineering
great Men, proud Officers or Magistrates? or who wou'd cringe to
Statesmen out of Fear? What Cully wou'd be cuckolded? What foolish
Heir undone by cheating Gamesters? What Lord wou'd be lampoon'd? What
Poet fear the Malice of his satirical Brother, or Atheist fear to
fight for fear of Death? Come buy my Coward's Comfort, quickly buy.
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