Too many “thens,” Chettle. “A few oiled mushrooms and one is ready to loose a button and begin.” [_All laugh._] CHETTLE: True, true, lad; ’tis but a beginning. [_Writes and reads on._] “For something to eat, a shoulder of mutton and a cantle of one of your noble pasties [_Shakespeare interjects_ “just to quiet the stomach’s craving,” _and Chettle writes and repeats the phrase_] just to quiet the stomach’s craving, and then a bird, say a pheasant for choice, and afterwards a goose [_Shakespeare interjects_ “to trifle with,” _and again Chettle writes and repeats the words_] to trifle with, and instead of salad some barbel’s beards—you know how I like ’em—and nothing more an’ you love me—nothing, unless it be a morsel of cheese [_Shakespeare interjects_ “to take away the cannibal taste of the meat” _and Chettle writes and repeals the words with a loud laugh_] to take away the cannibal taste of the meat.” JONSON: You gulf of gluttony! No wonder you’re lame with gout! CHETTLE: It’ll tweak you worse at my age, old gamecock! Ah, lads! My suppers are all numbered; I can’t increase ’em by one and so I want ’em all good. This world owes Hal Chettle a living. FLETCHER: Are you finished? CHETTLE: [_Reads on._] “And you’ll not forget the wine, dear Mistress Tagge: nothing but your old sack—sack without taint of sugar or cow’s juice—pure milk o’ the grape; and afterwards, if you will, a tankard of canary with my pipe, just to keep me warm thro’ the long night. And as for the angels, count on ’em; if I can, I’ll bring you twice twenty; for I love an open hand.” [_Shakespeare, going to the door, interjects_, “‘In others,’ Chettle, ‘in others.’” _All laugh; but Chettle cries_, “No, no, mad wag,” _as Shakespeare goes out_.] JONSON: You unspeakable liar, you; you haven’t two coins in the world to clink together! CHETTLE: That’s the virtue of the promise, thickhead! Ha; Ha! lads! He knows how to write and how to fight, the great boar, but not how to live. That’s Chettle’s art. Ben has no kindling fancy, no procreate imagination. I’ll tell you a secret, lads, a rich secret, a secret of gold; in this world large promises excite more goodwill than small performances, and praise to a woman is more than sacks of money. He! he! Oh, the sweet creatures; how should we live without ’em! And how angry I shall be to-night with that cozening, lying bookdealer! Ha! ha! JONSON: Haven’t you any conscience? CHETTLE: