_Enter_ Diego. We have, and where, if any guest do come, He must of force be lodg'd, that is the truth, Sir. _Theo._ But if I pay you for both your beds, methinks That should alike content you. _Host._ That it shall, Sir. If I be paid, I am paid. _Theo._ Why, there's a Ducket Will that make your content? _Host._ Oh the sweet face on you: A Ducket? yes, and there were three beds Sir, And twice so many rooms, which is one more, You should be private in 'em all, in all Sir, No one should have a piece of a bed with you Not master Dean of _Sivil_ himself, I swear. Though he came naked hither, as once he did When h' had like t'have been tane a bed with the _Moor_ And guelt by her Master: you shall be as private, As if you lay in's own great house that's haunted, Where no body comes, they say. _Theo._ I thank you Hostess. Pray you, will you shew me in. _Host._ Yes marry will I Sir, And pray that not a flea, or a chink vex you. [_Exit_ Host. _and_ Theo. _Inc._ You forget supper: Gossip: move for supper. _Die._ 'Tis strange what love to a beast may do, his Horse Threw him into this fit. _Inc._ You shall excuse me It was his being in _cuerpo_, meerly caus'd it. _Die._ Do you think so Sir? _Inc._ Most unlucky _cuerpo_. Naught else, he looks as he would eat Partridge, This guest; ha' you 'em ready in the house? And a fine piece of Kid now? and fresh garlick _Enter_ Hostess. With _Sardinia_ and _Zant_ Oil? how now? Has he bespoke, what will he have a brace, Or but one Partridge, or a short leg'd Hen, Daintyly carbonado'd? _Host._ 'Lass the dead May be as ready for a supper as he. _Inc._ Ha? _Host._ He has no mind to eat, more than his shadow. _Inc._ Say you. _Die._ How does your worship? _Inc._ I put on My left shooe first to day, now I perceive it, And skipt a bead in saying 'em 'ore; else I could not be thus cross'd: He cannot be Above seventeen; one of his years, and have No better a stomach? _Host._ And in such good cloaths too. _Die._ Nay, these do often make the stomach worse, wife, That is no reason. _Inc._ I could, at his years, Gossips (As temperate as you see me now) have eaten My brace of Ducks, with my half Goose, my Conie, And drink my whole twelve _Marvedis_ in Wine As easie as I now get down three Olives. _Die._ And, with your temperance-favour, yet I think Your worship would put to't at six and thirty For a good wager; and the meal in too. _Inc._ I do not know what mine old mouth can do. I ha not prov'd it lately. _Die._ That's the grief, Sir. _Inc._ But is he without hope then gone to bed?