Boy. Sir.
Laza. Will the Count speak with me?
Boy. One of his Gentlemen is gone to inform him of your coming, Sir.
Laza. There is no way left for me to compass th[is] Fish-head, but by being presently made known to the Duke.
Boy. That will be hard Sir.
Laza. When I have tasted of this sacred dish,
Then shall my bones rest in my Fathers tomb
In peace; then shall I dye most willingly,
And as a dish be serv'd to satisfie,
Deaths hunger, and I will be buried thus:
My Bier shall be a charger born by four,
The Coffin where I lye, a powd'ring-tub,
Bestrew'd with Lettice, and cool Sallad herbs,
My Winding-sheet of Tansies, the black Guard
Shall be my solemn Mourners, and instead
Of ceremonies, wholsom burial Prayers:
A printed dirge in rhyme, shall bury me.
Instead of tears, let them pour Capon sauce upon my hearse,
And salt instead of dust, Manchets for stones, for other glorious shields
Give me a Voider; and above my Hearse
For a Trutch sword, my naked knife stuck up.
[The Count discovers himself.
Boy. Master, the Count's here.
Laza. Where? my Lord I do beseech you.
Count. Y'are very welcome Sir, I pray you stand up, you shall dine with me.