BAC.  Since we must needs go, let’s go merrily.  Farewell, Sir Robert
Toss-pot:  sing amain Monsieur Mingo, whilst I mount up my ass.

    [Here they go out, singing, “Monsieur Mingo,” as they came in.

WILL SUM.  Of all the gods, this Bacchus is the ill-favoured’st mis-shapen god that ever I saw.  A pox on him! he hath christened me with a new nickname of Sir Robert Toss-pot that will not part from me this twelvemonth.  Ned fool’s clothes are so perfumed with the beer he poured on me, that there shall not be a Dutchman within twenty miles, but he’ll smell out and claim kindred of him.  What a beastly thing it is to bottle up all in a man’s belly, when a man must set his guts on a gallon-pot last, only to purchase the alehouse title of boon companion.  “Carouse; pledge me, and you dare!  ’Swounds, I’ll drink with thee for all that ever thou art worth!” It is even as two men should strive who should run farthest into the sea for a wager.  Methinks these are good household terms, “Will it please you to be here, sir?  I commend me to you!  Shall I be so bold as trouble you?  Saving your tale, I drink to you.”  And if these were put in practice but a year or two in taverns, wine would soon fall from six-and-twenty pound a tun, and be beggar’s money—­a penny a quart, and take up his inn with waste beer in the alms-tub.  I am a sinner as others:  I must not say much of this argument.  Every one, when he is whole, can give advice to them that are sick.  My masters, you that be good fellows, get you into corners, and sup off your provender closely:[96] report hath a blister on her tongue! open taverns are tell-tales. Non peccat quicunque potest peccasse negare.

SUM.  I’ll call my servants to account, said I? 
A bad account; worse servants no man hath.
Quos credis fidos effuge, tutis eris: 
The proverb I have prov’d to be too true,
Totidem domi hostes habemus quot servos. 
And that wise caution of Democritus,
Servus necessaria possessio, non autem dulcis: 
Nowhere fidelity and labour dwells. 
How[97] young heads count to build on had I wist. 
Conscience but few respect, all hunt for gain: 
Except the camel have his provender
Hung at his mouth, he will not travel on. 
Tyresias to Narcissus promised
Much prosperous hap and many golden days,
If of his beauty he no knowledge took. 
Knowledge breeds pride, pride breedeth discontent: 
Black discontent, thou urgest to revenge: 
Revenge opes not her ears to poor men’s prayers. 
That dolt destruction is she without doubt,
That hales her forth and feedeth her with nought. 
Simplicity and plainness, you I love! 
Hence, double diligence, thou mean’st deceit: 
Those that now serpent-like creep on the ground,
And seem to eat the dust, they crouch so low—­
If they be disappointed of their prey,
Most traitorously will trace their nails and sting.