_Young Lo._ Drink Master _Morecraft_, pray be merrie all:
Nay and you will not drink there's no societie,
Captain speak loud, and drink: widow, a word.
_Cap._ Expou[n]d her throughly Knight. Here God o' gold, here's to thy
fair possessions; Be a Baron and a bold one: leave off your tickling of
young heirs like Trouts, and let thy Chimnies smoke. Feed men of war, live
and be honest, and be saved yet.
_Mor._ I thank you worthie Captain for your counsel. You keep your
Chimnies smoking there, your nostrils, and when you can, you feed a man of
War, this makes you not a Baron, but a bare one: and how or when you shall
be saved, let the Clark o'th' companie (you have commanded) have a just
care of.
_Poet._ The man is much moved. Be not angrie Sir, but as the Poet sings,
let your displeasure be a short furie, and goe out. You have spoke home,
and bitterly, to me Sir. Captain take truce, the Miser is a tart and a
wittie whorson--
_Cap._ Poet, you feign perdie, the wit of this man lies in his fingers
ends, he must tell all; his tongue fills his mouth like a neats tongue,
and only serves to lick his hungrie chaps after a purchase: his brains and
brimstone are the devils diet to a fat usurers head: To her Knight, to
her: clap her aboard, and stow her.
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