Shakespeare:
Every man in his humour, Ben; who should know that better than you?
Jonson:
[Sits again, grumbling.] The curs, who bark and run.
Lacy:
Let’s have a hanap, friends, to cool the embers of strife.
Chettle:
One cup of sack, Shakespeare, to chase your melancholy and start your wit.
Shakespeare:
Not one. Sweet wine on bitter beer would make me Chettle. [Turns to Jonson.] So you became a Catholic in prison, Ben. Was it the loneliness, or fasting?