_ Yes Sir.
_Wel._ Have they any meat?
_Ser._ Faith Sir, they have a kind of wholesome Rushes, Hay I cannot call
it.
_Wel._ And no Provender?
_Ser._ Sir, so I take it.
_Wel._ You are merry Sir, and why so?
_Ser._ Faith Sir, here are no Oats to be got, unless you'l have 'em in
Porredge: the people are so mainly given to spoon-meat: yonder's a cast of
Coach-mares of the Gentlewomans, the strangest Cattel.
_Wel._ Why?
_Ser._ Why, they are transparent Sir, you may see through them: and such a
house!
_Wel._ Come Sir, the truth of your discovery.
_Ser._ Sir, they are in tribes like Jewes: the Kitchin and the Dayrie make
one tribe, and have their faction and their fornication within themselves;
the Buttery and the Landry are another, and there's no love lost; the
chambers are intire, and what's done there, is somewhat higher than my
knowledge: but this I am sure, between these copulations, a stranger is
kept vertuous, that is, fasting. But of all this the drink Sir.
_Wel. _What of that Sir?
_Ser. _Faith Sir, I will handle it as the time and your patience will give
me leave. This drink, or this cooling Julip, of which three spoonfuls
kills the Calenture, a pint breeds the cold Palsie.
_Wel. _Sir, you bely the house.
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