Inc. I do not know what mine old mouth can do.
I ha not prov'd it lately.
Die. That's the grief, Sir.
Inc. But is he without hope then gone to bed?
Host. I fear so, Sir, h'as lock'd the door close to him
Sure he is very ill.
Inc. That is with fasting,
You should ha told him Gossip, what you had had,
Given him the Inventory of your kitchen,
It is the picklock in an Inn, and often
Opens a close barr'd stomach: what may he be troh?
Has he so good a Horse?
Die. Oh a brave Jennet,
As e'r your worship saw.
Inc. And he eats?
Die. Strongly.
Inc. A mighty Solecisme, heaven give me patience,
What creatures has he?
Host. None.