Chettle:
It’ll tweak you worse at my age, old gamecock! Ah, lads! My suppers are all numbered; I can’t increase ’em by one and so I want ’em all good. This world owes Hal Chettle a living.
Fletcher:
Are you finished?
Chettle:
[Reads on.] “And you’ll not forget the wine, dear Mistress Tagge: nothing but your old sack—sack without taint of sugar or cow’s juice—pure milk o’ the grape; and afterwards, if you will, a tankard of canary with my pipe, just to keep me warm thro’ the long night. And as for the angels, count on ’em; if I can, I’ll bring you twice twenty; for I love an open hand.” [Shakespeare, going to the door, interjects, “‘In others,’ Chettle, ‘in others.’” All laugh; but Chettle cries, “No, no, mad wag,” as Shakespeare goes out.]
Jonson:
You unspeakable liar, you; you haven’t two coins in the world to clink together!
Chettle:
That’s the virtue of the promise, thickhead! Ha; Ha! lads! He knows how to write and how to fight, the great boar, but not how to live. That’s Chettle’s art. Ben has no kindling fancy, no procreate imagination. I’ll tell you a secret, lads, a rich secret, a secret of gold; in this world large promises excite more goodwill than small performances, and praise to a woman is more than sacks of money. He! he! Oh, the sweet creatures; how should we live without ’em! And how angry I shall be to-night with that cozening, lying bookdealer! Ha! ha!