Host. 'Lass the dead
May be as ready for a supper as he.
Inc. Ha?
Host. He has no mind to eat, more than his shadow.
Inc. Say you.
Die. How does your worship?
Inc. I put on
My left shooe first to day, now I perceive it,
And skipt a bead in saying 'em 'ore; else
I could not be thus cross'd: He cannot be
Above seventeen; one of his years, and have
No better a stomach?
Host. And in such good cloaths too.
Die. Nay, these do often make the stomach worse, wife,
That is no reason.
Inc. I could, at his years, Gossips
(As temperate as you see me now) have eaten
My brace of Ducks, with my half Goose, my Conie,
And drink my whole twelve Marvedis in Wine
As easie as I now get down three Olives.
Die. And, with your temperance-favour, yet I think
Your worship would put to't at six and thirty
For a good wager; and the meal in too.