Pis. Nothing i'th' World, but a dry'd Tongue or two—
Host. Taste him, and tell me.
Pis. Is a valiant wine,
This must be mine, Host.
Host. This shall be ipse,
Oh, he's a devilish biting wine, a Tyrant
Where he lays hold, Sir, this is he that scorns
Small Beer should quench him; or a foolish Caudle
Bring him to Bed; no, if he flinch I'll shame him,
And draw him out to mull amongst old Midwives.
Piso. There is a Souldier, I would have thee better
Above the rest, because he thinks there's no man
Can give him drink enough.
Host. What kind of man?
Pis. That thou mayst know him perfectly, he's one
Of a left-handed making, a lank thing;
As if his Belly were ta'n up with straw
To hunt a match.
Host. Has he no Beard to shew him?
Pis. 'Faith, but a little, yet enough to note him,
Which grows in parcels, here and there a remnant;
And that thou mayst not miss him, he is one
That wears his forehead in a velvet scabbard.
Host. That note's enough, he's mine, I'll fuddle him,
Or lye i'th' suds; you will be here too?