Clown. Marry, sir, at your next neighbour’s, Young Master Lionel, where there is nothing but drinking out of dry-vats, and healthing in half-tubs; his guests are fed by the belly, and beggars served at his gate in baskets. He’s the adamant of this age, the daffodil of these days, the prince of prodigality, and the very Cæsar of all young citizens. Wincott. Belike, then, ’twas a massacre of meat, Not as I apprehended? Clown. Your gravity hath guessed aright: the chiefest that fell in this battle were wild fowl and tame fowl; pheasants were wounded instead of alfarez,[3.15] and capons for captains; anchoves stood for ancients, and caviare for corporals; dishes were assaulted instead of ditches, and rabbits were cut to pieces upon the rebellings;[3.16] some lost their legs, whilst other of their wings were forced to fly; the pioner undermined nothing but pie crust, and-- Wincott. Enough, enough! your wit hath played too long Upon our patience.--Wife, it grieves me much Both for the young and old man: the one graces His head with care, endures the parching heat And biting cold, the terrors of the lands, And fears at sea, in travel, only to gain Some competent estate to leave his son; Whiles all that merchandise, through gulfs, cross-tides, Pirates, and storms, he brings so far, the other Here shipwrecks in the harbour. Wife. ’Tis the care Of fathers; and the weakness incident To youth, that wants experience. _Enter_ Young Geraldine, Delavil, _and_ Prudentilla, _laughing_. Clown. I was at the beginning of the battle; but here comes some, that it seems were at the rifling of the dead carcases; for by their mirth they have had part of the spoil. Wincott. You are pleasant, gentlemen; what, I entreat, Might be the subject of your pleasant sport? It promiseth some pleasure. Prudentilla. If their recreation Be, as I make no question, on truth grounded, ’Twill beget sudden laughter. Wife. What’s the project? Delavil. Who shall relate it? Wincott. Master Geraldine, If there be anything can please my ear With pleasant sounds, your tongue must be the instrument On which the string must strike. Delavil. Be it his, then. Prudentilla. Nay, hear it, ’tis a good one. Wife. We entreat you, Possess[3.17] us o’ the novel.[3.18] Wincott. Speak, good sir. Young Geraldine. I shall, then, with a kind of barbarism, Shadow a jest that asks a smoother tongue, For in my poor discourse, I do protest, It will but lose its lustre. Wife. You are modest. Wincott. However, speak, I pray; for my sake do’t. Clown. This is like a hasty pudding, longer in eating than it was in making. Young Geraldine. Then thus it was: this gentleman and I Passed but just now by your next neighbour’s house, Where, as they say, dwells one young Lionel. Clown. Where I was to-night at supper.