Enter second Servant.

2 Ser. Mull a pint of Sack there for the women in the
Flower-deluce, and put in ginger enough, they belch like potguns,
And Robin fetch Tobacco for the Peacock, they will not be
Drunk till mid-night else: how now, how does my Master?

2 Boy. Faith he lyes drawing on a pace.

1 Boy. That's an ill sign.

2 Boy. And fumbles with the pots too.

1 Boy. Then there's no way but one with him.

2 Boy. All the rest,
Except the Captain, are in Limbo patrum,
Where they lye sod in sack.

1 Boy. Does he bear up still?

2 Boy. Afore the wind still, with his lights up bravely,
All he takes in I think he turns to Juleps,
Or h'as a world of Stowage in his belly,
The rest look all like fire-drakes, and lye scatter'd
Like rushes round about the room. My Master
Is now the loving'st man, I think, above ground.

1 Boy. Would he were always drunk then.