_Clean._ Now I remember, I have heard mine Host that's dead Touch a lute rarely, and as rarely sing too, A brave still mean. _Dor._ I would give a brace of _French_ Crowns To see him rise and Fiddle--Hark, a Song. A SONG. _'Tis late and cold, stir up the fire;_ _Sit close, and draw the Table nigher;_ _Be merry, and drink wine that's old,_ _A hearty medicine 'gainst a cold._ _Your bed of wanton down's the best,_ _Where you shall tumble to your rest;_ _I could wish you wenches too,_ _But I am dead and cannot do;_ _Call for the best the house may ring,_ _Sack, White, and Claret let them bring,_ _And drink apace while breath you have,_ _You'l find but cold drink in the grave;_ _Plover, Partridge for your dinner,_ _And a Capon for the sinner,_ _You shall find ready when you are up,_ _And your horse shall have his sup:_ _Welcom welcom shall flye round,_ _And I shall smile though under ground._ _Clean._ Now as I live, it is his voice. _Dor._ He sings well, the Devil has a pleasant pipe. _Clean._ The fellow lyed sure. _Enter_ Host. He is not dead, he's here: how pale he looks! _Dor._ Is this he? _Clean._ Yes. _Host._ You are welcom noble Gentlemen, My brave old guest most welcom. _Clean._ Lying knaves, To tell us you were dead, come sit down by us, We thank ye for your Song. _Host._ Would 't had been better. _Dor._ Speak, are ye dead? _Host._ Yes indeed am I Gentlemen, I have been dead these three weeks. _Dor._ Then here's to ye, to comfort your cold body. _Clean._ What do ye mean? stand further off. _Dor._ I will stand nearer to him, Shall he come out on's coffin to bear us company, And we not bid him welcom? come mine Host, Mine honest Host, here's to ye. _Host._ Spirits Sir, drink not. _Clea._ Why do ye appear? _Host._ To wait upon ye Gentlemen, 'Thas been my duty living, now my farewel; I fear ye are not us'd accordingly. _Dor._ I could wish you warmer company mine Host, How ever we are us'd. _Host._ Next to entreat a courtesie, And then I go to peace. _Clea._ Is't in our power? _Host._ Yes and 'tis this, to see my body buried In holy ground, for now I lye unhallowed, By the clarks fault; let my new grave be made Amongst good fellows, that have died before me, And merry Hostes of my kind. _Clea._ It shall be done. _Dor._ And forty stoops of wine drank at thy funeral. _Clea._ Do you know our travel? _Host._ Yes, to seek your friends, That in afflictions wander now. _Clean._ Alas! _Host._ Seek 'em no farther, but be confident They shall return in peace. _Dor._ There's comfort yet.