Dio. Come down, ye Dunce, is it not dead?
Dio. His throat is cut, and his bowels out.
Get. That's all one,
I am sure his teeth are in; and for any thing I know,
He may have Pigs of his own nature in's Belly.
Dio. Come, take him up I say, and see him drest,
He is fat, and will be lusty meat: away with him,
And get some of him ready for our Dinner.
Get. Shall he be roasted whole,
And serv'd up in a souce-tub? a portly service,
I'll run i'th' wheel my self.
Max. Sirrah, leave your prating,
And get some piece of him ready presently,
We are weary both, and hungry.
Get. I'll about it.
What an inundation of Brewiss shall I swim in! [Exit.
Dio. Thou art ever dull and melancholy, Cousin,
Distrustful of my hopes.
Max. Why, can you blame me?
Do men give credit to a Jugler?