(Hee sings and reeks and fillips all the time
with his finger, then sayees:)

Cap.  I, I, this thumping tune I like a life; a Song, a Song to it!

One Singes. 
This Song.

The Juice of Spanish squeez’d Grapes is It That makes a dull Braine so full of witt; The Lemonades cleere sparkling wine The grosser witts too, doth much refine.  Then to bee foxd[264] it is no crime, Since thickest and dull Braines It makes sublime.  The Stillyards Reanish wine and Divells white, Who doth not in them sometimes take delight?  If with Mimique Gestures you’le keep you from sadnes, Then drinke lusty Clarett twill put you in Madnes; And then to settle you no hopes in Beer But wholesome Potts of Scotch ale though its deere.

Cap.  But looke you, Child, you say the Divells white in your Song.  You have beene ill catechiz’d, Boy, for a White Divell is but a poeticall fiction[265]; for the Divell, God bless us, Child, is blacke.

Boy.  No, Captaine, I say white wine at the Divell.

Cap.  That’s true; thats a good Boy, indeed. Underwit, lend mee a Peice to give these harmonious men there.  And now begon, my Masters, without noise, for I will have no more fiddle-faddle for my money, no tunes of supererrogation after the Musicall Bill is paid.

[Exeunt[266] omnes.

[SCENE 2.]

Enter Thomas.

Tho.  They are all drunke already, and such Confusion in their heads and tongues, my master kisses the next man and calls him Mistres Dorothy; Mr. Courtwell, possest with the spiritt of defiance to Cupid, is ready to beat him for being in love; my Projector dead drunk in a Chaire, and the Captaine peepeing into his mouth like a tooth drawer and powring downe sack which he feeles not, but his chapps shut againe like a spring lock till he returne with a key to open his teeth, to poure in the next health.

    Enter Courtwell.

Cou.  My Cloake and sword, Drawer.

Tho.  Tis here, sir.

Cou.  Thou art a pretty fellow; here’s half a Crowne, say I am gone Thomas.

Tho.  You are pretty well.

    Enter Captaine and Underwit.

Un.  What shalls doe with him; this Engine burnes like Etna.

Cap.  Throw him into the River.

Un.  Hee’s able to mull the Thames well, for my owne part would Mistresse Dorothy were here to open her files.

Cou.  Did you not name a woman.  I will have no mention of any thing that’s female.

Un.  May not a man talke of Sack?

Cap.  Sack is a soveraigne medicine.

Un.  Oh very Soveraigne.

Cap.  Is it not hic et hec sack, both for he and she.  Stay, is my Countryman gone? come hither, Thomas; do you thinke I am drunke?