FAB. Alas! where lies your grief?--Some _aqua vitæ_! The devil's very sick, I fear he'll die; For he looks very ill.
COR. Dar'st thou deride the minister of darkness? In Lucifer's great name, Coreb conjures thee To set him free.
FAB. I will not for the mines of all the earth, Unless thou give me liberty to see Seven years more, before thou seize on me.
COR. Unbind me, and by hell I will not touch thee, Till seven years from this hour be full expir'd.
COR. A vengeance take thy art! Live and convert all piety to evil: Never did man thus overreach the devil. No time on earth, like Phaetonic flames, Can have perpetual being. I'll return To my infernal mansion: but be sure, Thy seven years done, no trick shall make me tarry; But, Coreb, thou to hell shalt Fabel carry.
FAB. Then thus between us two this variance ends; Thou to thy fellow-fiends, I to my friends. [_Exeunt._
_Enter_ SIR ARTHUR CLARE, DORCAS _his lady_, MILLICENT _his daughter, young_ HARRY CLARE; _the men booted, the gentlewomen in cloaks and_ _safeguards;_[241] BLAGUE, _the merry host of the_ _George, comes in with them_.
HOST. Welcome, good knight, to the George at Waltham: my freehold, my tenements, goods and chattels. Madam, here's a room is[242] the very Homer and Iliads of a lodging, it hath none of the four elements in it; I built it out of the centre, and I drink ne'er the less sack. Welcome, my little waste of maidenheads: what? I serve the good Duke of Norfolk.[243]
CLARE. God-a-mercy, my good host Blague! Thou hast a good seat here.
HOST. 'Tis correspondent or so: there's not a Tartarian[244] nor a carrier shall breathe upon your geldings: they have villanous rank feet, the rogues, and they shall not sweat in my linen. Knights and lords, too, have been drunk in my house, I thank the Destinies.
H. CLARE. Prythee, good sinful innkeeper, will that corruption, thine ostler, to look well to my gelding. Ha! a pox of these rushes.[245]
HOST. You, St Denis, your gelding shall walk without doors, and cool his feet for his master's sake. By the body of Saint George, I have an excellent intellect to go steal some venison: now, when wast thou in the forest?
H. CLARE. Away, you stale mess of white broth! Come hither, sister, let me help you.