I’m ill with thirst, and for that disease there’s no medicine like small beer.
Jonson:
[To drawer.] Bring beer.
Chettle:
Have sack, Shakespeare, sack’s the drink: when sack goes in, wit comes out. Beer’s cold and thin, fit for young girls, who quake to think of lovers; but sack’s rich and generous, breeds courage and self-content; equals the poor man to kings, and kings to gods.
Shakespeare:
[To Jonson.] A little more, and he’d rise into measure.
Jonson:
Out of measure, you mean; the verse is my part. Curious how abstinence breeds desire, and desire song. Try prison for six months, Will, and your mouth will drip with longing for wine, women and good company. Ah, the leaden hours!
Chettle: