Clown. I’ll stand to’t, that in good hospitality there can be nothing found that’s ill: he that’s a good house-keeper keeps a good table, a good table is never without good stools, good stools seldom without good guests, good guests never without good cheer, good cheer cannot be without good stomachs, good stomachs without good digestion, good digestion keeps men in good health; and therefore, all good people that bear good minds, as you love goodness, be sure to keep good meat and drink in your houses, and so you shall be called good men, and nothing can come on’t but good, I warrant you. [_Exit_. SCENE II.--_A Room in_ Old Lionel’s _House_. _Enter_ Reignald _and_ Robin, _two_ Serving-men. Reignald. Away, you Corydon! Robin. Shall I be beat out of my master’s house thus? Reignald. Thy master! we are lords amongst ourselves, And here we live and reign. Two years already Are past of our great empire, and we now Write _anno tertio_. Robin. But the old man lives That shortly will depose you. Reignald. I’ the meantime, I, as the mighty lord and seneschal Of this great house and castle, banish thee The very smell o’ the kitchen; be it death To appear before the dresser. Robin. And why so? Reignald. Because thou stink’st of garlick. Is that breath Agreeing with our palace, where each room Smells with musk, civet, and rich ambergris, Aloes, cassia, aromatic gums, Perfumes, and powders? One whose very garments Scent of the fowls and stables! Oh, fie, fie! What a base nasty rogue ’tis! Robin. Yet your fellow. Reignald. Then let us put a cart-horse in rich trappings, And bring him to the tilt-yard. Robin. Prank it, do; Waste, riot, and consume, misspend your hours In drunken surfeits, lose your days in sleep, And burn the nights in revels, drink and drab, Keep Christmas all year long, and blot lean Lent Out of the calendar; all that mass of wealth Got by my master’s sweat and thrifty care, Havoc in prodigal uses; make all fly, Pour’t down your oily throats, or send it smoking Out at the tops of chimneys. At his departure, Was it the old man’s charge to have his windows Glister all night with stars? his modest house Turned to a common stews? his beds to pallets Of lusts and prostitutions? his buttery hatch[3.06] Now made more common than a tavern’s bar? His stools, that welcomed none but civil guests, Now only free for pandars, whores and bawds, Strumpets, and such?