_Adam._ The king come to an ale-house!--Tapster, fill me three pots.--Where's the king? is this he?--Give me your hand, sir: as good ale as ever was tapt; you shall drink while your skin crack. _Rasni._ But hearest thou, fellow, who killed this man? _Adam._ I'll tell you, sir,--if you did taste of the ale,--all Nineveh hath not such a cup of ale, it flowers in the cup, sir; by my troth, I spent eleven pence, beside three races of ginger-- _Rasni._ Answer me, knave, to my question, how came this man slain? _Adam._ Slain! why [the] ale is strong ale, 'tis huffcap;[85] I warrant you, 'twill make a man well.--Tapster, ho! for the king a cup of ale and a fresh toast; here's two races more. _Alvi._ Why, good fellow, the king talks not of drink; he would have thee tell him how this man came dead. _Adam._ Dead! nay, I think I am alive yet, and will drink a full pot ere night: but hear ye, if ye be the wench that filled us drink, why, so, do your office, and give us a fresh pot; or if you be the tapster's wife, why, so, wash the glass clean. _Alvi._ He is so drunk, my lord, there is no talking with him. _Adam._ Drunk! nay, then, wench, I am not drunk: th'art shitten quean to call me drunk; I tell thee I am not drunk, I am a smith, I. _Enter the_ Smith. _First Lord._ Sir, here comes one perhaps that can tell. _Smith._ God save you, master. _Rasni._ Smith, canst thou tell me how this man came dead? _Smith._ May it please your highness, my man here and a crew of them went to the ale-house, and came out so drunk that one of them killed another; and now, sir, I am fain to leave my shop, and come to fetch him home. _Rasni._ Some of you carry away the dead body: drunken men must have their fits; and, sirrah smith, hence with thy man. _Smith._ Sirrah, you, rise, come go with me. _Adam._ If we shall have a pot of ale, let's have it; here's money; hold, tapster, take my purse. _Smith._ Come, then, with me, the pot stands full in the house. _Adam._ I am for you, let's go, th'art an honest tapster: we'll drink six pots ere we part. [_Exeunt_ Smith, ADAM; _and_ Attendants _with the dead body._] _Rasni._ Beauteous, more bright than beauty in mine eyes, Tell me, fair sweeting, want'st thou anything Contain'd within the threefold circle of the world, That may make Alvida live full content? _Alvi._ Nothing, my lord; for all my thoughts are pleas'd, Whenas mine eye surfeits with Rasni's sight. _Enter the_ KING OF PAPHLAGONIA _malcontent._ _Rasni._ Look how thy husband haunts our royal court, How still his sight breeds melancholy storms. O, Alvida, I am passing passionate, And vex'd with wrath and anger to the death! Mars, when he held fair Venus on his knee, And saw the limping smith come from his forge, Had not more deeper furrows in his brow Than Rasni hath to see this Paphlagon.