Merc. But it was the general's own tent.
Phæd. You durst not fight, I am certain; and therefore came last in, when the rich plunder was gone beforehand.—Will you come, Bromia?
Merc. Pr'ythee, do not call so loud:—A great goblet, that holds a gallon.
Phæd. Of what was that goblet made? answer quickly, for I am just calling very loud——Bro—
Merc. Of beaten gold. Now, call aloud, if thou dost not like the metal.
Phæd. Bromia. [Very softly.
Merc. That struts in this fashion, with his arms a-kimbo, like a city magistrate; and a great bouncing belly, like a hostess with child of a kilderkin of wine. Now, what say you to that present, Phædra?
Phæd. Why, I am considering——
Merc. What, I pr'ythee?