A drink, lads, before you go, to keep out the river-mist; water’s the cause of all my pains!
Jonson:
Sack, you mean; sack and canary that make your blood boil with gout.
[The drawer brings wine in large flagons.]
Chettle:
Not so, bully Ben. Not so. Rheumatics, not gout. Ah, had my mother but given me sack when I was young and tender, I had never known these whoreson tweakings. A pious upbringing, Ben, and a watery diet have been my undoing.
Burbage:
Do you go with us, Jonson?
Jonson:
No. I’m not known to your Lord Chamberlains.