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Fool. Alas, alas, my chiefest son is slain! What must I do to raise him up again? Here he lies in the presence of you all. I willingly for a doctor call. A doctor, a doctor, ten pounds for a doctor! I'll go and fetch a doctor.

Doctor. Here am I. Fool. Are you the doctor? Doctor. Yes; that you may plainly see By my art and activity. Fool. By your heart and the cap of your knee? Doctor. Oh, no; you foolish blockhead. By my art and activity. Fool. Well, what's your fee to cure this poor man? Doctor. Ten pounds is my fee; but Jack, if thou be an honest man, I'll only take five off thee. Fool. Tha'll be wondrous cunning if tha gets any. Doctor. Good-bye, Jack. Fool. Here, how far have you travelled in doctrineship? Doctor. Italy, Tytaly, High Germany, France and Spain, And over the hills and back again. (Or, instead of last line.) And now have returned to cure the diseases of Old England again. (Or, England, Ireland, Europe and Syrup. I went into Ireland and saw such sights I never seen in my life before: Churches made of penny loaves; Black Puddings for bell-ropes; Little Pigs running about with a knife and fork sticking in them, crying out Who will eat me?) Fool. So far and no further? Doctor. O yes; a great deal further.