AUT. Thou want'st no liquor, nor no flesh and blood. I pray thee, may I ask without offence, How many tuns of wine hast in thy paunch? Methinks that [that is] built like a round church, Should yet have some of Julius Caesar's wine: I warrant 'twas not broached this hundred year. BAC. Hear'st thou, dough-belly! because thou talk'st and talk'st, and dar'st not drink to me a black jack, wilt thou give me leave to broach this little kilderkin of my corpse against thy back? I know thou art but a micher,[89] and dar'st not stand me. _A vous, Monsieur Winter_, a frolic up-se-frieze:[90] cross, ho.' _super naculum_.[91] [_Knocks the jack upon his thumb_. WIN. Gramercy, Bacchus, as much as though I did. For this time thou must pardon me perforce. BAC. What, give me the disgrace? go to, I say, I am no Pope to pardon any man. Ran, ran, tara: cold beer makes good blood. St George for England![92] Somewhat is better than nothing. Let me see, hast thou done me justice? why so: thou art a king, though there were no more kings in the cards but the knave. Summer, wilt thou have a demi-culverin, that shall cry _Husty-tusty_, and make thy cup fly fine meal in the element? SUM. No, keep thy drink, I pray thee, to thyself. BAC. This Pupilonian in the fool's coat shall have a cast of martins and a whiff. To the health of Captain Rinocerotry! Look to it; let him have weight and measure. WILL SUM. What an ass is this! I cannot drink so much, though I should burst. BAC. Fool, do not refuse your moist sustenance: come, come, dog's head in the pot; do what you are born to. WILL SUM. If you will needs make me a drunkard against my will, so it is; I'll try what burden my belly is of. BAC. Crouch, crouch on your knees, fool, when you pledge God Bacchus. [_Here_ WILL SUMMER _drinks, and they sing about him_, BACCHUS _begins_. All. _Monsieur Mingo for quaffing did surpass In cup, in can, or glass_. BAC. Ho, well shot, a toucher, a toucher! _For quaffing Toy doth pass, In cup, in can, or glass_.[93] All. _God Bacchus, do him right, And dub him knight_. BAC. Rise up, Sir Robert Toss-pot. [_Here he dubs_ WILL SUMMER _with the black jack_. SUM. No more of this, I hate it to the death. No such deformer of the soul and sense, As is this swinish damn'd horn drunkenness. Bacchus, for thou abusest so earth's fruits, Imprison'd live in cellars and in vaults. Let none commit their counsels unto thee; Thy wrath be fatal to thy dearest friends; Unarmed run upon thy foemen's swords; Never fear any plague, before it fall: Dropsies and watery tympanies haunt thee; Thy lungs with surfeiting be putrified, To cause thee have an odious stinking breath; Slaver and drivel like a child at mouth; Be poor and beggarly in thy old age; Let thine own kinsmen laugh when thou complain'st, And many tears gain nothing but blind scoffs. This is the guerdon due to drunkenness: Shame, sickness, misery follow excess.