+Ern.+ If I mistake not, she will be reveng'd On him ere long, and take him too by th' force Of her rare wit and beauty. +Ped.+ Sh' has a fair Portion, sir, of both, I dare assure you. +Sil.+ But prythee, brother, instruct us a little; Tell us, what kind of country is this Holland, That's so much talk'd of, and so much fought for? +Ern.+ Why, friend, 'tis a huge ship at anchor, fraught With a sort of creatures made up of turf And butter. +Ped.+ Pray, sir, what do they drink in that country? 'Tis said, there's neither fountains there Nor vines. +Ern.+ This is the butler, sure, by his apt question. [_Aside._ Friend, they drink there a certain muddy liquor, Made of that grain with which you feed your mules. +Ped.+ What, barley? can that juice quench their thirst? +Ern.+ You'd scarce believe it could, did you but see How oft they drink. +Ped.+ But methinks that should make them drunk, camerade? +Ern.+ Indeed most strangers are of that opinion; But they themselves believe it not, because They are so often. +Ger.+ A nation, sure, of walking tuns, the world Has not the like. +Ern.+ Pardon me, friend, there is but a great ditch Betwixt them and such another nation; If these good fellows would but join, and drink That dry, i' faith they might shake hands. +Ger.+ Prythee, friend, can these Dutch Borachios[48] fight? +Ern.+ They can do even as well, for they can pay Those that can fight. +Sil.+ But where, I pray, sir, do they get their money? +Ern.+ O sir, they have a thriving mystery; They cheat their neighbouring princes of their trade, And then they buy their subjects for their soldiers. +Sil.+ Methinks our armies should beat these butter-boxes. Out of the world. +Ern.+ Trust me, brother, they'll sooner beat our armies Out of their country: why, ready money, friend, Will do much more in camps, as well as courts, Than a ready wit, I dare assure you. +Ger.+ Methinks, camerade, our king should have more money Than these Dutch swabbers; he's master o' th' Indies, Where money grows. +Ern.+ But they have herrings which, I assure you, Are worth our master's mines. +Ger.+ Herrings! why, what a devil, do they grow In their country? +Ern.+ No, faith, they fish 'em on the English coast, And fetch their salt from France; then they pickle 'em, And sell 'em all o'er the world. +Ger.+ 'Slife, these rascals live by cookery! +Ern.+ This is the coddled cook, I've found him out. [_Aside._ +Ber.+ What kind of beds, sir, have they i' that country? +Ern.+ This, I dare swear, 's the groom o' th' chamber. [_Aside._ Sir, they have certain niches in their walls,[49] Where they climb up o' nights; and there they stew In their own grease till morning.