Sil. We [were] all apt enough.
Rich. But I will lay the fault on none but me,
That I would be so entreated, come Silvio,
Shall we go drink agen, come Gentlemen,
Why do you stay, let's never leave off now,
Whil'st we have Wine, and Throats, I'll practise it,
Till I have made it my best quality;
For what is best for me to do but that?
For [Gods] sake come and drink; when I am nam'd,
Men shall make answer, Which Richardo mean you?
The excellent drinker? I will have it so,
Will you go drink?
Silv. We drunk too much too lately.
Rich. Why there is then the less behind to drink,
Let's end it all, dispatch that, wee'l send abroad,
And purchase all the Wine the world can yield,
And then drink it off, then take the fruits o'th' earth,
Distil the Juice from them, and drink that off;
Wee'l catch the rain before it fall to ground,
And drink off that that never more may grow;
Wee'l set our mouths to Springs, and drink them off,
And all this while wee'l never think of those
That love us best, more than we did last night.
We will not give unto the poor a drop
Of all this drink, but when we see them weep,
Wee'l run to them, and drink their tears off too,
Wee'l never leave whilst there is heat or moisture,
In this large globe, but suck it cold and dry,
Till we have made it Elemental earth,
Merely by drinking.
Ped. Is't flattery to tell you, you are mad?
Rich. If it be false,
There's no such way to bind me to a Man;
He that will have me, lay my goods and lands,
My life down for him, need no more, but say,
Richardo thou art mad, and then all these
Are at his service, then he pleases me,
And makes me think that I had vertue in me,
That I had love, and tenderness of heart,
That though I have committed such a fault,
As never creature did, yet running mad,
As honest men should do for such a crime,
I have exprest some worth, though it be late:
But I alas have none of these in me,
But keep my wits still like a frozen Man,
That had no fire within him.
Sil. Nay, good Richardo leave this wild talk, and send a letter to her, I'll deliver it.
Rich. 'Tis to no purpose; perhaps she's lost last night,
Or she got home agen, she's now so strictly
Look'd to, the wind can scarce come to her, or admit
She were her self; if she would hear from me,
From me unworthy, that have us'd her thus,
She were so foolish, that she were no more
To be belov'd.
Enter [Andrugio and] Servant with a Night-gown.
Ser. Sir, we have found this night-gown she took with her.