Scene Fourth. The Court-yard of Master Gourseys House at Milton

Enter Franke and Boy.

Frank. I am very dry with walking ore the greene.—
Butler, some beere!—Sirra, call the butler.

Bo. Nay, faith, sir, we must have some smith to give the butler a drench, or cut him in the forehead, for he hath got a horses desease, namely the staggers; to night hees a good huswife, he reeles al that he wrought to day; and he were good now to play at dice, for he castes excellent well.

Fran. How meanst thou? is he drunke?

Boy. I cannot tell; but I am sure hee hath more liquor in him then a whole dicker of hydes; hees sockt throughly, i faith.

Fran. Well, goe and call him; bid him bring me drinke.

Boy. I will, sir.

Exit.

Fran. My mother powtes, and will looke merrily
Neither upon my father nor on me:
He saies she fell out with mistresse Barnes to day;
Then I am sure they'l not be quickly friends.
Good Lord, what kinde of creatures women are!
Their love is lightly wonne and lightly lost;
And then their hate is deadly and extreame:
He that doth take a wyfe betakes himselfe
To all the cares and troubles of the world.
Now her disquietnes doth grieve my father,
Greeves me, and troubles all the house besides.—
What, shall I have some drinke? [Horn sounded within]—How now? a horne!
Belike the drunken slave is fallen asleepe,
And now the boy doth wake him with his horne.

[Enter Boy.]

How now, sirra, wheres the butler?

Boy. Mary, sir, where he was even now, a sleepe; but I wakt him, and when he wakt, he thought he was in mayster Barnses buttery, for he stretcht himselfe thus, and yauning said, 'Nicke, honest Nicke, fill a fresh bowle of ale; stand to it, Nicke, and thou beest a man of Gods making, stand to it'; and then I winded my horne, and hees horne-mad.

Enter Hodge.

Hodg. Boy, hey! ho, boy! and thou beest a man, draw.—O, heres a blessed mooneshine, God be thanked!—Boy, is not this goodly weather for barley?

Boy. Spoken like a right maulster, Hodge: but doost thou heare? thou art not drunke.

Hod. No, I scorne that, i faith.

Boy. But thy fellow Dicke Coomes is mightily drunke.

Hod. Drunke! a plague on it, when a man cannot carrie his drinke well! sbloud, Ile stand to it.

Boy. Hold, man; see and thou canst stand first.

Hodge. Drunke! hees a beast, and he be drunke; theres no man that is a sober man will be drunk; hees a boy, and he be drunke.

Boy. No, hees a man as thou art.

Hodge. Thus tis when a man will not be ruled by his friends: I bad him keepe under the lee, but he kept downe the weather two bowes; I tolde him hee would be taken with a plannet, but the wisest of us all may fall.

B. True, Hodge.

Boy trip him.

Hod. Whope! lend me thy hand, Dicke, I am falne into a wel; lend me thy hand, I shall be drowned else.

Boy. Hold fast by the bucket, Hodge.

Hodg. A rope on it!

Boy. I, there is a rope on it; but where art thou, Hodge?

Hodge. In a well; I prethie, draw up.

Boy. Come, give up thy bodie; wind up, hoyst.

Hodg. I am over head and eares.

Boy. In all, Hodge, in all.

Fran. How loathsome is this beast mans shape to me,
This mould of reason so unreasonable!
Sirra, why doost thou trip him downe, seeing hees drunke?

Boy. Because, sir, I would have drunkards cheape.

Fran. How meane ye?

Boy. Why, they say that, when any thing hath a fall it is cheape; and so of drunkards.

Fran. Go to, helpe him up [Knocking without]: but, harke, who knockes?

[Boy goes to the gate, and returns.]

Bo. Sir heeres one of maister Barnsies men with a letter to my olde maister.

Fran. Which of them is it?

Boy. They call him Nicholas, sir.

Fran. Go, call him in.

[Exit Boy.]

Enter Coomes.

Coom. By your leave, ho! How now, young maister, how ist?

Fran. Looke ye, sirra, where your fellow lies;
Hees in a fine taking, is he not?

Coom. Whope, Hodge! where art thou, man, where art thou?

Hodge. O, in a well.

Co. In a well, man! nay, then, thou art deepe in understanding.

Fran. I, once to day you were almost so, sir.

Coom. Who, I! go to, young maister, I do not like this humor in ye, I tell ye true; give every man his due, and give him no more: say I was in such a case! go to, tis the greatest indignation that can be offered to a man; and, but a mans more godlier given, you were able to make him sweare out his heart bloud. What though that honest Hodge have cut his finger heere? or, as some say, cut a feather? what thogh he be mump, misled, blind, or as it were? tis no consequent to me: you know I have drunke all the ale-houses in Abington drie, and laide the tappes on the tables when I had done: sbloud, Ile challenge all the true rob-pots in Europe to leape up to the chinne in a barrell of beere, and if I cannot drinke it down to my foote ere I leave, and then set the tap in the midst of the house, and then turne a good turne on the toe on it, let me be counted nobodie, a pingler,—nay, let me be bound to drinke nothing but small beere seven yeares after; and I had as leefe be hanged.

Enter Nicholas.

Fran. Peace, sir, I must speake with one.—Nicholas, I think, your name is.

Nich. True as the skinne betweene your browes.

Fran. Well, how doth thy maister?

Nich. Forsooth, live, and the best doth no better.

Fran. Where is the letter he hath sent me?

Nich. Ecce signum! heere it is.

Fran. Tis right as Phillip said, tis a fine foole [Aside].—
This letter is directed to my father;
Ile carrie it to him.—Dick Coomes, make him drinke.

Exit.

Coom. I, Ile make him drunke, and he will.

Nich. Not so, Richard; it is good to be merrie and wise.

Dick. Well, Nicholas, as thou art Nicholas, welcome; but as thou art Nicholas and a boone companion, ten times welcome. Nicholas, give me thy hand: shall we be merrie? and wee shall, say but we shall, and let the first word stand.

Nich. Indeed, as long lives the merrie man as the sad; an ownce of debt will not pay a pound of care.

Coom. Nay, a pound of care will not pay an ownce of debt.

Nich. Well, tis a good horse never stumbles: but who lies here?

Coom. Tis our Hodge, and I thinke he lies asleep: you made him drunk at your house to day; but Ile pepper some of you fort.

Nic. I, Richard, I know youle put a man over the shooes, and if you can; but hees a foole wil take more then wil do him good.

Coom. Sbloud, ye shall take more then will doe yee good, or Ile make ye clap under the table.

Nich. Nay, I hope, as I have temperance to forbeare drinke, so have I patience to endure drinke: Ile do as company doth; for when a man doth to Rome come, he must do as there is done.

Coomes. Ha, my resolved Nicke, frolagozene! Fill the potte, hostesse; swounes, you whore! Harry Hooke's a rascall. Helpe me but carry my fellow Hodge in, and weele crushe it, i faith.

Exeunt.