Wel. I am glad on’t Sir, for if it had proved stronger, you had been tongue ti’d of these commendations.  Light me the candle Sir, I’le hear no more. [Exeunt.

Enter young Loveless and his Comrades, with wenches, and two Fidlers.

Yo.  Lo. Come my brave man of war, trace out thy darling, And you my learned Council, sit and turn boyes, Kiss till the Cow come home, kiss close, kiss close knaves.  My Modern Poet, thou shalt kiss in couplets.

Enter with Wine.

Strike up you merry varlets, and leave your peeping,
This is no pay for Fidlers.

Capt. O my dear boy, thy Hercules, thy Captain
Makes thee his Hylas, his delight, his solace. 
Love thy brave man of war, and let thy bounty
Clap him in Shamois:  Let there be deducted out of our main potation
Five Marks in hatchments to adorn this thigh,
Crampt with this rest of peace, and I will fight
Thy battels.

Yo.  Lo. Thou shalt hav’t boy, and fly in Feather, Lead on a March you Michers.

Enter Savill.

Savill.  O my head, O my heart, what a noyse and change is here! would I had been cold i’th’ mouth before this day, and ne’re have liv’d to see this dissolution.  He that lives within a mile of this place, had as good sleep in the perpetual noyse of an Iron Mill.  There’s a dead Sea of drink i’th’ Seller, in which goodly vessels lye wrackt, and in the middle of this deluge appear the tops of flagons and black jacks, like Churches drown’d i’th’ marshes.

Yo.  Lo. What, art thou come?  My sweet Sir Amias welcome to Troy.  Come thou shalt kiss my Helen, and court her in a dance.

Sav.  Good Sir consider?

Yo.  Lo.  Shall we consider Gentlemen?  How say you?

Capt.  Consider? that were a simple toy i’faith, consider? whose moral’s that?  The man that cryes consider is our foe:  let my steel know him.

Young Lo.  Stay thy dead doing hand, he must not die yet:  prethee be calm my Hector.

Capt.  Peasant slave, thou groom compos’d of grudgings, live and thank this Gentleman, thou hadst seen Pluto else.  The next consider kills thee.

Trav.  Let him drink down his word again in a gallon of Sack.

Poet.  ’Tis but a snuffe, make it two gallons, and let him doe it kneeling in repentance.

Savil.  Nay rather kill me, there’s but a lay-man lost.  Good Captain doe your office.

Young Lo.  Thou shalt drink Steward, drink and dance my Steward.  Strike him a horn-pipe squeakers, take thy striver, and pace her till she stew.

Savil.  Sure Sir, I cannot dance with your Gentlewomen, they are too light for me, pray break my head, and let me goe.

Capt.  He shall dance, he shall dance.