John. Who waits there?
Ant. Sir. [Within.
John. Bring down the bottle of Canary wine.
Lan. Exceeding sick, Heav'n help me.
John. Haste ye Sirrah,
I must ev'n make her drunk; nay gentle mother.
Lan. Now fie upon ye, was it for this purpose
You fetch'd your evening walks for your digestions,
For this pretended holiness? no weather,
Not before day could hold ye from the Matins.
Were these your bo-peep prayers? ye'have pray'd well,
And with a learned zeal: watcht well too; your Saint
It seems was pleas'd as well: still sicker, sicker.
Enter Anthony, with a bottle of wine.
Joh. There is no talking to her till I have drencht her.
Give me: here mother take a good round draught,
'Twill purge spleen from your spirits: deeper mother.
Lan. I, I, son, you imagine this will mend all.
John. All i' faith Mother.