Young Lo.  He shall dance, and drink, and be drunk and dance, and be drunk again, and shall see no meat in a year.

Poet. And three quarters?

Young Lo. And three quarters be it.

Capt. Who knocks there? let him in.

Enter Elder Loveless disguised.

Savill. Some to deliver me I hope.

Elder Lo. Gentlemen, God save you all, my business is to one Master Loveless?

Capt. This is the Gentleman you mean; view him, and take his Inventorie, he’s a right one.

Elder Lo. He promises no less Sir.

Young Lo. Sir, your business?

Elder Lo. Sir, I should let you know, yet I am loth, yet I am sworn to’t, would some other tongue would speak it for me.

Young Lo. Out with it i’ Gods name.

Elder Lo. All I desire Sir is, the patience and sufferance of a man, and good Sir be not mov’d more.

Young Lo. Then a pottle of sack will doe, here’s my hand, prethee thy business?

Elder Lo. Good Sir excuse me, and whatsoever you hear, think must have been known unto you, and be your self discreet, and bear it nobly.

Young Lo. Prethee dispatch me.

Elder Lo. Your Brother’s dead Sir.

Young Lo. Thou dost not mean dead drunk?

Elder Lo. No, no, dead and drown’d at sea Sir.

Young Lo. Art sure he’s dead?

Elder Lo. Too sure Sir.

Young Lo. I but art thou very certainly sure of it?

Elder Lo. As sure Sir, as I tell it.

Young Lo. But art thou sure he came not up again?

Elder Lo. He may come up, but ne’re to call you Brother.

Young Lo. But art sure he had water enough to drown him?

Elder Lo. Sure Sir, he wanted none.

Young Lo. I would not have him want, I lov’d him better; here I forgive thee:  and i’faith be plain, how do I bear it?

Elder Lo. Very wisely Sir.

Young Lo.  Fill him some wine.  Thou dost not see me mov’d, these transitorie toyes ne’re trouble me, he’s in a better place, my friend I know’t.  Some fellows would have cryed now, and have curst thee, and faln out with their meat, and kept a pudder; but all this helps not, he was too good for us, and let God keep him:  there’s the right use on’t friend.  Off with thy drink, thou hast a spice of sorrow makes thee dry:  fill him another. Savill, your Master’s dead, and who am I now Savill?  Nay, let’s all bear it well, wipe Savill wipe, tears are but thrown away:  we shall have wenches now, shall we not Savill?

Savill.  Yes Sir.

Young Lo.  And drink innumerable.

Savil.  Yes forsooth.

Young Lo.  And you’ll strain curtsie and be drunk a little?