Phy.  Why, Gentles, I am a living man, Philautus.[308] What instance shall I give ye? heare me I have sight, understanding, I know mine hostes, I see that Gentlewoman, I can feele.

Scil.  Feele this Gentlewoman! s’lid if yee were ten Ghosts, ile not indure it.

Acut.  Spirit, thou deludest us.

Phy.  Why what should I say? will ye heare my voice, heeres not but—­

Scil.  Nay, that’s a lye, then tis a living spirit, ile have a bout with him.

Accut.  Oh sir, meddle not with shadowes.  Spirit, thou lyest;
I saw thee dead, [and] so did many moe.[309]
We know ye wandring dwellers in the dark
Have power to shape you like mortallitie
To beguile the simple & deceve their soules. 
Thou art a Devill.

Phy.  Sweet Gent, beholde I am flesh and blood; heeres my flesh, feele it.

Cittie wife.  By my troth, methinkes hee should be alive.  I could finde in my heart to feele his flesh.

Grac.  Trie with your Rapier, Accutus; if he bleede he lives.

Phy.  If I bleede I die; sweet Gentlemen, draw no blood.

Accu.  How shall wee knowe thou art flesh and blood then?

Grac.  Take heede, Accutus, heele blast thee.

Phy.  What instance shall I give ye?  I am Phylautus,[310] he that must needes confesse, he was drunk in your companies last day; sweet Gentlemen, conceive me aright.

Accut.  Why true, true, that we know and[311] those swilling bowels. 
Death did arrest thee, many saw thee deade,
Else needles were these rites of funeralls. 
And since that time, till now, no breath was knowne
Flye from you; and twentie times the houre-glasse
Hath turned his upside downe; and twenty times,
The nimble current sand hath left his upper roome. 
To ly beneath, since sparke of life appeard;
In all which time my care imploide it self
To give the[e] rights of buriall:  now, if you live,
Who so glad as I?

Phy.  Sir, your love has showne it selfe aboundant, but the cold aire is a meanes to devorce me from your companies:  mine host, let me crave passage to my chamber.

Host.  Out of my dores, knave; thou enterest not my dores, I have no chalke in my house, my posts shall not be garded with a little sing song, Si nihil attuleris, ibis, Homere, foras.

Accut.  Ha! how now man? see’st now any errors? 
Nay, this is nothing; he hath but showne
A patterne of himself, what thou shalt finde
In others; search through the Globe of earth,
If there mongst twentie two thou doost find
Honester then himself ile be buried straight. 
Now thinke what shame tis to be vilde,
And how vilde to be drunk:  look round! where? 
Nay looke up, beholde yon Christall pallace. 
There sits an ubiquitarie Judge