Clea. 'Tis late Sir, I hear none stirring. [A lute is struck.
Dor. Hark, what's that, a Lute?
'Tis at the door I think.
Clean. The doors are shut fast.
Dor. 'Tis morning sure, the Fiddlers are got up
To fright mens sleeps, have we ne're a pispot ready?
Clean. Now I remember, I have heard mine Host that's dead
Touch a lute rarely, and as rarely sing too,
A brave still mean.
Dor. I would give a brace of French Crowns
To see him rise and Fiddle—Hark, a Song.
A SONG.
'Tis late and cold, stir up the fire;
Sit close, and draw the Table nigher;
Be merry, and drink wine that's old,
A hearty medicine 'gainst a cold.
Your bed of wanton down's the best,
Where you shall tumble to your rest;
I could wish you wenches too,
But I am dead and cannot do;
Call for the best the house may ring,
Sack, White, and Claret let them bring,
And drink apace while breath you have,
You'l find but cold drink in the grave;
Plover, Partridge for your dinner,
And a Capon for the sinner,
You shall find ready when you are up,
And your horse shall have his sup:
Welcom welcom shall flye round,
And I shall smile though under ground.
Clean. Now as I live, it is his voice.