RHYME. No, mine own dish will serve; I'm singular. Few vessels still do well. I carry this To drink my beer, while others drink their sack. I am abstemious Rhymewell: I hate wine, Since I spake treason last i' th' cellar. Here, Give me thy hand, thou child of fervency. Didst thou mistrust thy spectacles? It was no anger, 'twas a rapture merely. CHRIS. Drink, and excuse it after. James, your help! Come, man of voice, keep time, while that I drink. This moisture shall dry up all injuries, Which I'll remember only to forget; And so hereafter, which I'm wont to call The future now, I love thee stubbornly. Your beer is like my words, strong, stinging gear. CATCH. Here, little lawyer, let's be friends hereafter; I love this reconcilement with my heart. AND. 'Tis the best deed that e'er I did. O' my conscience, I shall make a good justice of the peace. There had been blood shed if I had not stickled.[199] SER. More blood been spill'd, I warrant, than beer now. AND. That inkhorn is a deadly dangerous weapon: It hath undone one quarter of the kingdom. CHRIS. Men should forgive; but thou art far, yea far From it, O Bagshot: thou'rt in 'love with hate. Bless me! I see the fiend still in his looks; He is not reconcilable with drink: He'll ne'er love truly till he eat with me. The nature of his spirit asketh meat; He hath a wolf in's breast: food must appease him. AND. Cold meat will do it, will't not? RHYME. Anything That may employ the teeth. AND. Go, James, provide. You are not merry yet. CATCH. To satisfy you In that point, we'll sing a song of his. AND. Let's ha't; I love these ballads hugeously. _The Song._ 1. CATCHMEY. _Then our music is in prime,_ _When our teeth keep triple time;_ _Hungry notes are fit for knells._ _May lankness be_ _No guest to me:_ _The bagpipe sounds when that it swells._ CHORUS. _May lankness, &c._ 2. BAGSHOT. _A mooting-night[200] brings wholesome smiles,_ _When John-a-Nokes and John-a-Styles_ _Do grease the lawyer's satin._ _A reading-day_ _Frights French away,_ _The benchers dare speak Latin._ CHORUS. _A reading, &c._ 3. RHYMEWELL. _He that's full doth verse compose;_ _Hunger deals in sullen prose:_ _Take notice and discard her._ _The empty spit_ _Ne'er cherish'd wit;_ _Minerva loves the larder._ CHORUS. _The empty spit, &c._ 4. CHRISTOPHER.