JOYCE. Come, come, let me go. Birds, that want the use of reason and speech, can couple together in one day; and yet you, that have both, cannot conclude in twenty. GERT. Why, what good would it do you to tell him? JOYCE. Do not talk to me, for I am deaf to anything you say. Go, weep and cry. GERT. Nay, but sister---- [_Exeunt._ _Enter_ STAINES _and_ DRAWER _with wine_. STAINES. Drawer, bid them make haste at home. Tell them they are coming from church. DRAWER. I will, sir. [_Exit_ DRAWER. STAINES. That I should live to be a serving-man! a fellow which scalds his mouth with another man's porridge; brings up meat for other men's bellies, and carries away the bones for his own; changes his clean trencher for a foul one, and is glad of it. And yet did I never live so merry a life when I was my master's master as now I do, being man to my man. And I will stand to't, for all my former speeches, a serving-man lives a better life than his master; and thus I prove it: The saying is, the nearer the bone the sweeter the flesh; then must the serving-man needs eat the sweeter flesh, for he always picks the bones. And again, the proverb says, the deeper the sweeter. There has the serving-man the advantage again, for he drinks still in the bottom of the pot. He fills his belly, and never asks what's to pay; wears broadcloth, and yet dares walk Watling Street,[171] without any fear of his draper. And for his colours, they are according to the season; in the summer, he is apparelled (for the most part) like the heavens, in blue; in winter, like the earth, in frieze. _Enter_ BUBBLE, SIR LIONEL LONGFIELD, _and_ SPRINKLE. But see, I am prevented in my encomium. I could have maintained this theme this two hours. SIR LIONEL. Well, God rest his soul, he is gone, and we must all follow him. BUB. Ay, ay, he's gone, Sir Lionel, he's gone. SIR LIONEL. Why, though he be gone, what then? 'Tis not you that can fetch him back again, with all your cunning. It must be your comfort that he died well. BUB. Truly, and so it is. I would to God I had e'en another uncle that would die no worse; surely I shall weep again, if I should find my handkerchief. LONG. How now! what are these, onions? BUB. Ay, ay, Sir Lionel, they are my onions; I thought to have had them roasted this morning for my cold. Gervase, you have not wept to-day; pray, take your onions. Gentlemen, the remembrance of death is sharp, therefore there is a banquet within to sweeten your conceits. I pray, walk in, gentlemen, walk you in; you know I must needs be melancholy, and keep my chamber. Gervase, usher them to the banquet. STAINES. I shall, sir. Please you, Sir Lionel? SIR LIONEL. Well, Master Bubble, we'll go in and taste of your bounty. In the meantime, you must be of good cheer. [GENTLEMEN _and_ GERVASE _go out_.