Ant. Give me some Wine.
Ant. 'Tis a Horse, Sir.
To be drest to the tune of Ale only!
Nothing but sawces to my sores!
2 Gent. Fie, Antonio,
You must be govern'd.
Ant. H'as given me a damn'd Clyster,
Only of sand and snow water, Gentlemen,
Has almost scour'd my guts out.
Sur. I have giv'n you that, Sir,
Is fittest for your state.
Ant. And here he feeds me
With rotten ends of Rooks, and drown'd Chickens,
Stew'd Pericraniums, and Pia-maters;
And when I go to bed (by Heaven 'tis true Gentlemen)
He rolls me up in Lints, with Labels at 'em,
That I am just the man i'th' Almanack,
In Head and Face, is Aries place.
Sur. Will't please ye
To let your friends see you open'd?
Ant. Will't please you, Sir,
To let me have a wench? I feel my Body
Open enough for that yet.
Sur. How, a Wench?