Flam. Lo you, sister!
Stay, my lord; I 'll tell you a tale. The crocodile, which lives
in the River Nilus, hath a worm breeds i' th' teeth of 't, which puts
it to extreme anguish: a little bird, no bigger than a wren, is
barber-surgeon to this crocodile; flies into the jaws of 't, picks out
the worm, and brings present remedy. The fish, glad of ease, but
ungrateful to her that did it, that the bird may not talk largely of
her abroad for non-payment, closeth her chaps, intending to swallow
her, and so put her to perpetual silence. But nature, loathing such
ingratitude, hath armed this bird with a quill or prick on the head,
top o' th' which wounds the crocodile i' th' mouth, forceth her open
her bloody prison, and away flies the pretty tooth-picker from her
cruel patient.
Brach. Your application is, I have not rewarded
The service you have done me.
Flam. No, my lord.
You, sister, are the crocodile: you are blemish'd in your fame, my lord
cures it; and though the comparison hold not in every particle, yet
observe, remember, what good the bird with the prick i' th' head hath
done you, and scorn ingratitude.
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