Por. So ye shall, Sirrah,
When I quarter the same louse with ye.
3 Beg. 'Tis twelve o'clock.
Por. 'Tis ever so with thee, when thou hast done scratching,
For that provokes thy stomach to ring noon;
O the infinite Seas of Porridge thou hast swallow'd!
And yet thou lookst as if they had been but Glysters;
Thou feedst abundance, thou hadst need of sustenance;
Alms do you call it to relieve these Rascals?
Enter Alphonso, Curio, and Seberto.
Nothing but a general rot of sheep can satisfie 'em.
Alp. Did not I tell you, how she would undo me?
What Marts of Rogues, and Beggers!
Seb. 'Tis charity
Methinks, you are bound to love her for—
Alp. Yes, I warrant ye,
If men could sale to Heaven in Porridge-pots,
With masts of Beef, and Mutton, what a Voyage should I make!
What are all these?
1 Beg. Poor people, and 't like your worship.
[2] Beg. Wretched poor people.