WILL SUM.  What an ass is this!  I cannot drink so much, though I should burst.

BAC.  Fool, do not refuse your moist sustenance:  come, come, dog’s head in the pot; do what you are born to.

WILL SUM.  If you will needs make me a drunkard against my will, so it is; I’ll try what burden my belly is of.

BAC.  Crouch, crouch on your knees, fool, when you pledge God Bacchus.

    [Here WILL SUMMER drinks, and they sing
    about him, BACCHUS begins.

All. Monsieur Mingo for quaffing did surpass
In cup, in can, or glass.

BAC.  Ho, well shot, a toucher, a toucher! For quaffing Toy doth pass, In cup, in can, or glass.[93]

All. God Bacchus, do him right,
And dub him knight.

BAC.  Rise up, Sir Robert Toss-pot.
    [Here he dubs WILL SUMMER with the black jack.

SUM.  No more of this, I hate it to the death. 
No such deformer of the soul and sense,
As is this swinish damn’d horn drunkenness. 
Bacchus, for thou abusest so earth’s fruits,
Imprison’d live in cellars and in vaults. 
Let none commit their counsels unto thee;
Thy wrath be fatal to thy dearest friends;
Unarmed run upon thy foemen’s swords;
Never fear any plague, before it fall: 
Dropsies and watery tympanies haunt thee;
Thy lungs with surfeiting be putrified,
To cause thee have an odious stinking breath;
Slaver and drivel like a child at mouth;
Be poor and beggarly in thy old age;
Let thine own kinsmen laugh when thou complain’st,
And many tears gain nothing but blind scoffs. 
This is the guerdon due to drunkenness: 
Shame, sickness, misery follow excess.

BAC.  Now on my honour, Sim Summer, thou art a bad member, a dunce, a mongrel, to discredit so worshipful an art after this order.  Thou hast cursed me, and I will bless thee.  Never cap of Nipitaty[94] in London come near thy niggardly habitation!  I beseech the gods of good fellowship thou may’st fall into a consumption with drinking small beer!  Every day may’st thou eat fish, and let it stick in the midst of thy maw, for want of a cup of wine to swim away in.  Venison be venenum to thee:  and may that vintner have the plague in his house that sells a drop of claret to kill the poison of it!  As many wounds may’st thou have as Caesar had in the senate-house, and get no white wine to wash them with; and to conclude, pine away in melancholy and sorrow, before thou hast the fourth part of a dram of my juice to cheer up thy spirits.

SUM.  Hale him away, he barketh like a wolf: 
It is his drink, not he, that rails on us.

BAC.  Nay soft, brother Summer, back with that fool.  Here is a snuff in the bottom of the jack, enough[95] to light a man to bed withal:  we’ll leave no flocks behind us, whatsoever we do.

SUM.  Go drag him hence, I say, when I command.