Vil. What ails thy grace?
Cast. Retriv those Patridges.
Or as I am a King—
Doct. Pray Sir be patient,
They are flowen too far.
Vil. These are breath'd pyes an't please you,
And your hawkes are such Buzards.
Cast. A King and have nothing,
Nor can have nothing!
Vil. What think you of pudding?
A pudding Royal?
Cast. To be royally starv'd,
Whip me this fool to death; he is a blockhead.
Vil. Let 'em think they whip me, as we think you a King:
'Twill be enough.
Cast. As for your dainty Doctor, the Table taken away,
All gone, all snatch'd away, and I unsatisfied,
Without my wits being a King and hungry?
Suffer but this thy treason? I tell thee Doctor.
I tell it thee, in earnest, and in anger,
I am damnably hungry, my very grace is hungry.
Vil. A hungry grace is fittest to no meal Sir.