To tell you his merritts, [60] Good thoughts it inherites, It raiseth the spirritts And quickens the witt; It peoples the veyns, It scoureth the reynes, It purgeth the braines And maks all things fitte. Heers then a full, &c. It makes a man bold, It keepes out the cold; [70] Hee hath all things twice told Vnto his comforte, Hee stands in the middle, The world, hey dery diddle, Goes round without a fiddle To make them sporte. Heers then a full carowse, &c. _Por._ Why well said, my ladds of mettall, this is [F. 80v rev.] somwhat yett, 'tis trimlye done; but what sporte, what merriment, all dead, no vertue extant? [80] _Pri[mus]._ Pray, sir, gett our good Mistris to bestowe something on us, & wee ar gone. _Por._ Talke of that _tempore venturo_; there's no goinge to any other houses now, your bowle is at the bottome, & that which is left is for mee. _Sec[undus]._ Nay, good Master Porter. _Por._ Come, come, daunce vs a morrice, or els goe sell fishe; I warrant youle make as good a night of it heere as if you had beene at all the houses in the towne. _Ter[tius]._ Nay, pray letts goe, wee can doe nothinge. [90] _Por._ Noe! What was that I tooke you all a gabling tother day in mother Bunches backside by the well there, when Tom at Hobses ranne vnder the hovell with a kettle on's head? _Pri._ Why, you would not have a play, would you? _Por._ Oh, by all meanes, 'tis your onely fine course. About it, ladds, a the stampe, I warrante you a reward sufficient; I tell you, my little windsuckers, had not a certaine melancholye ingendred with a nippinge dolour overshadowed the sunne shine of my mirthe, I had beene I pre, sequor, one of your consorte. But [F. 80r rev.] [100] wheres gooddy Hubbardes sonne--I saw him in his mothers holliday cloaths eennow? _Sec._ Doe you heere, Master Porter, wee have pittifull nailes in our shooes; you were best lay something on the grounde, els wee shall make abhominable scarrs in the face on't. _Por. Rem tenes_; well, weele thinke on't. _Ter._ It is a most condolent tragedye wee shall move. _Por. Dictum puta; satis est quod suffocat._ [110] _Sec._ In faith, I tickle them for a good voice. _Por. Sufficiente quantitate_, a woord is enough to the wise. _Pri._ You have noe butterd beare in the house, have yee? _Por._ No, no, trudge, some of the guests are one the point to bee gone. _Sec._ Have you ere a gentlewomans picture in the house, or noe? _Por._ Why? [120] _Sec._ If you have, doe but hange it yonder, & twill make mee act in conye.