_Ser. _Faith Sir, I will handle it as the time and your patience will give me leave. This drink, or this cooling Julip, of which three spoonfuls kills the Calenture, a pint breeds the cold Palsie. _Wel. _Sir, you bely the house. _Ser. _I would I did Sir. But as I am a true man, if 'twere but one degree colder, nothing but an Asses hoof would hold it. _Wel. _I am glad on't Sir, for if it had proved stronger, you had been tongue ti'd of these commendations. Light me the candle Sir, I'le hear no more. [_Exeunt._ _Enter young_ Loveless _and his _Comrades, _with wenches, and two Fidlers._ _Yo. Lo. _Come my brave man of war, trace out thy darling, And you my learned Council, sit and turn boyes, Kiss till the Cow come home, kiss close, kiss close knaves. My Modern Poet, thou shalt kiss in couplets. _Enter with_ Wine. Strike up you merry varlets, and leave your peeping, This is no pay for Fidlers. _Capt._ O my dear boy, thy _Hercules,_ thy Captain Makes thee his _Hylas,_ his delight, his solace. Love thy brave man of war, and let thy bounty Clap him in _Shamois_: Let there be deducted out of our main potation Five Marks in hatchments to adorn this thigh, Crampt with this rest of peace, and I will fight Thy battels. _Yo. Lo._ Thou shalt hav't boy, and fly in Feather, Lead on a March you Michers. _Enter_ Savill. _Savill_. O my head, O my heart, what a noyse and change is here! would I had been cold i'th' mouth before this day, and ne're have liv'd to see this dissolution. He that lives within a mile of this place, had as good sleep in the perpetual noyse of an Iron Mill. There's a dead Sea of drink i'th' Seller, in which goodly vessels lye wrackt, and in the middle of this deluge appear the tops of flagons and black jacks, like Churches drown'd i'th' marshes. _Yo. Lo._ What, art thou come? My sweet Sir _Amias_ welcome to _Troy_. Come thou shalt kiss my _Helen_, and court her in a dance. _Sav_. Good Sir consider? _Yo. Lo_. Shall we consider Gentlemen? How say you? _Capt_. Consider? that were a simple toy i'faith, consider? whose moral's that? The man that cryes consider is our foe: let my steel know him. _Young Lo_. Stay thy dead doing hand, he must not die yet: prethee be calm my _Hector_. _Capt_. Peasant slave, thou groom compos'd of grudgings, live and thank this Gentleman, thou hadst seen _Pluto_ else. The next consider kills thee. _Trav_. Let him drink down his word again in a gallon of Sack. _Poet_. 'Tis but a snuffe, make it two gallons, and let him doe it kneeling in repentance. _Savil_. Nay rather kill me, there's but a lay-man lost. Good Captain doe your office. _Young Lo_. Thou shalt drink Steward, drink and dance my Steward. Strike him a horn-pipe squeakers, take thy striver, and pace her till she stew. _Savil_. Sure Sir, I cannot dance with your Gentlewomen, they are too light for me, pray break my head, and let me goe. _Capt_. He shall dance, he shall dance.