_Clar._ For what follows, You shall direct me; something I will do, A new born zeal, and friendship prompts me to. [_Ex._ _Enter_ Dorilaus, Cleander, Chamberlain, _Table,_ _Tapers, and three stools._ _Clea._ We have supp'd well friend; let our beds be ready, We must be stirring early. _Cham._ They are made Sir. _Dor._ I cannot sleep yet, where's the jovial host You told me of? 'thas been my custom ever To parley with mine host. _Clea._ He's a good fellow, And such a one I know you love to laugh with; Go call your Master up. _Cham._ He cannot come Sir. _Dor._ Is he a bed with his wife? _Cham._ No certainly. _Dor._ Or with some other guests? _Cham._ Neither and't like ye. _Clea._ Why then he shall come by your leave my friend, I'le fetch him up my self. _Cham._ Indeed you'l fail Sir. _Dor._ Is he i'th' house? _Cham._ No, but he is hard by Sir; He is fast in's grave, he has been dead these three weeks. _Dor._ Then o' my conscience he will come but lamely, And discourse worse. _Clean._ Farewel mine honest Host then, Mine honest merry Host; will you to bed yet? _Dor._ No, not this hour, I prethee sit and chat by me. _Clean._ Give us a quart of wine then, we'l be merry. _Dor._ A match my Son; pray let your wine be living, Or lay it by your Master. _Cham._ It shall be quick Sir. [_Exit._ _Dor._ Has not mine Host a wife? [_Clean._] A good old woman. _Dor._ Another coffin, that is not so handsom; Your Hostesses in Innes should be blith things, Pretty, and young to draw in passengers; She'l never fill her beds well, if she be not beauteous. _Clean._ And courteous too. _Enter_ Chamberlain, _with wine._ _Dor._ I, I, and a good fellow, That will mistake sometimes a Gentleman For her good man; well done; here's to _Lisander_. _Clean._ My full love meets it; make fire in our lodgings, We'l trouble thee no farther; to your Son. [_Ex._ Cham. _Dor._ Put in _Clarange_ too; off with't, I thank ye; This wine drinks merrier still, O for mine Host now, Were he alive again, and well dispos'd, I would so claw his pate. _Clean._ Y'are a hard drinker. _Dor._ I love to make mine Host drunk, he will lye then The rarest, and the roundest, of his friends, His quarrels, and his guests, and they are the best bauds too, Take 'em in that tune. _Clean._ You know all. _Dor._ I did Son, but time, and arms have worn me out. _Clea._ 'Tis late Sir, I hear none stirring. [_A lute is struck._ _Dor._ Hark, what's that, a Lute? 'Tis at the door I think. _Clean._ The doors are shut fast. _Dor._ 'Tis morning sure, the Fiddlers are got up To fright mens sleeps, have we ne're a pispot ready?