We’ll drink and we’ll never ha’ done, boys, Put the glass then around with the sun, boys, Let Apollo’s example invite us; For he’s drunk every night, And that makes him so bright, That he’s able next morning to light us. The sun’s a good pimple, an honest soaker, he has a cellar at your antipodes. If I travel, aunt, I touch at your antipodes—your antipodes are a good rascally sort of topsy-turvy fellows. If I had a bumper I’d stand upon my head and drink a health to ’em. A match or no match, cousin with the hard name; aunt, Wilfull will do’t. If she has her maidenhead let her look to ’t; if she has not, let her keep her own counsel in the meantime, and cry out at the nine months’ end. MILLA. Your pardon, madam, I can stay no longer. Sir Wilfull grows very powerful. Egh! how he smells! I shall be overcome if I stay. Come, cousin. SCENE XI. LADY WISHFORT, SIR WILFULL WITWOUD, MR. WITWOUD, FOIBLE. LADY. Smells? He would poison a tallow-chandler and his family. Beastly creature, I know not what to do with him. Travel, quotha; ay, travel, travel, get thee gone, get thee but far enough, to the Saracens, or the Tartars, or the Turks—for thou art not fit to live in a Christian commonwealth, thou beastly pagan. SIR WIL. Turks? No; no Turks, aunt. Your Turks are infidels, and believe not in the grape. Your Mahometan, your Mussulman is a dry stinkard. No offence, aunt. My map says that your Turk is not so honest a man as your Christian—I cannot find by the map that your Mufti is orthodox, whereby it is a plain case that orthodox is a hard word, aunt, and [_hiccup_] Greek for claret. [_Sings_]:— To drink is a Christian diversion, Unknown to the Turk or the Persian. Let Mahometan fools Live by heathenish rules, And be damned over tea-cups and coffee. But let British lads sing, Crown a health to the King, And a fig for your Sultan and Sophy. Ah, Tony! [FOIBLE _whispers_ LADY W.] LADY. Sir Rowland impatient? Good lack! what shall I do with this beastly tumbril? Go lie down and sleep, you sot, or as I’m a person, I’ll have you bastinadoed with broomsticks. Call up the wenches with broomsticks. SIR WIL. Ahey! Wenches? Where are the wenches? LADY. Dear Cousin Witwoud, get him away, and you will bind me to you inviolably. I have an affair of moment that invades me with some precipitation.—You will oblige me to all futurity. WIT. Come, knight. Pox on him, I don’t know what to say to him. Will you go to a cock-match? SIR WIL. With a wench, Tony? Is she a shake-bag, sirrah? Let me bite your cheek for that. WIT. Horrible! He has a breath like a bagpipe. Ay, ay; come, will you march, my Salopian? SIR WIL. Lead on, little Tony. I’ll follow thee, my Anthony, my Tantony. Sirrah, thou shalt be my Tantony, and I’ll be thy pig. And a fig for your Sultan and Sophy.