Wife. I will not lay against Ralph, Honny, because I have not spoken with him: but look George, peace, here comes the merry old Gentleman again.
Enter old Merry-thought.
Old Mer. When it was grown to dark midnight,
And all were fast asleep,
In came Margarets grimly Ghost,
And stood at William's feet.
I have money, and meat, and drink before hand, till to morrow at noon, why should I be sad? methinks I have halfe a dozen jovial spirits within me, I am three merry men, and three merry men: To what end should any man be sad in this world? give me a man that when he goes to hanging cries troul the black boul to me: and a Woman that will sing a catch in her Travel. I have seen a man come by my door, with a serious face, in a black cloak, without a Hatband, carrying his head as if he lookt for pins in the street. I have lookt out of my window halfe a year after, and have spied that mans head upon London Bridge: 'tis vile, never trust a Tailor that does not sing at his work, his mind is of nothing but filching.
Wife. Mark this George, 'tis worth noting: Godfrey my Tailor, you know never sings, and he had fourteen yards to make this Gown; and I'll be sworn, Mistriss Penistone the Drapers Wife had one made with twelve.
Old Mer. 'Tis mirth that fills the veins with blood,
More than Wine, or Sleep, or Food,
Let each man keep his heart at ease
No man dies of that disease.
He that would his body keep
From diseases, must not weep,
But whoever laughs and sings,
Never [he] his body brings
Into Feavers, Gouts, or Rhumes,
Or lingringly his Lungs consumes:
Or meets with aches in the bone,
Or Catarrhs, or griping Stone:
But contented lives for aye,
The more he laughs, the more he may.
Wife. Look George, how sayst thou by this George? is't not a fine old man? Now Gods blessing a thy sweet lips. When wilt thou be so merry George? Faith thou art the frowningst little thing, when thou art angry, in a Countrey.
Enter Merchant.