HEATH. You say true. If we had let 'um alone, I warrant these boxes had been kept till they were mouldy, visited but once a quarter, and at last bequeathed by will and testament to some silly sober well-wisher of hers in her lifetime. BRIS. One that never drank above four-shilling beer but once at a christening, and then had like to have got a red nose by it, cannot distinguish between a jug and a flagon, never was in an alehouse, knows not what a bush means, nor ever spent above twopence in his life, and that was upon a prayer-book. GUM. Your tongues, methinks, run very glib; I wonder they do not screek for want of liquor. What, tapster? attendance here. BUNG. Anon, anon, sir; I have it in my hand. _Enter_ TAPSTER. TAP. You're welcome, gentlemen; here's a cup of the best ale in London. BRIS. How? gentlemen? untutored slave, saucy villain! Gentlemen? why, sirrah, do I look like a gentleman? I scorn thy terms, and let this kick put thee in mind of better language. BUNG. Cry you mercy, I mistook you indeed. HEATH. Sirrah, we'll make you know who you mistake; call one of your master's best customers gentleman! BUNG. [_To some one outside._] Anon, anon, sir; I'll be with you presently. BRIS. Sirrah, bid your master come in. [_Exit_ TAPSTER. GUM. Come, here's a round to the first inventor of the famous art of drinking. BRIS. No, no; to the first finder out of the noble art of brewing; for we should be forced to drink water else. HEATH. To neither; but to the first most commendable alehouse-keeper that sold three cans for twopence; he is the chief benefactor we have. Come, three cans to his health! GUM, BRIS. A match! _Enter_ WELCOME, DITTY, BUDGET, JENNITING, CURDS. WEL. Set you merry, my merry, merry lads; what, do the cans dance nimbly? HEATH. Yes, but we want a pipe or two; good mine host, let's have some whiff. WEL. Here's a musician; honest Ditty and Budget too: if they do not make up the consort, they are very much out of tune. DITTY. O Gum, have we found you out? my box, you slave! BUD. And my budget! WEL. Come, set about, set about, my boon companions. BRIS. A devil on your snout! oatmeal face and tallow-chops, how came you hither with a pox, trow? HEATH. Look here, Bristle, how like shorn sheep they look. Where shall we run? they have cast me into a fit o' th' shaking palsy. BRIS. Come, we'll outface 'um. WEL. Come, sit down, my jovial boys, and roar. This night we'll suck up all the dew. _Enter_ BUNG, _with tobacco_.