Lop.
From another mans Trencher, Sir,
And there he found it season'd with small charge:
There he would play the Tyrant, and would devour ye
More than the Graves he made; at home he liv'd
Like a Camelion, suckt th' Air of misery,
[Table out, Standish, Paper, Stools.
And grew fat by the Brewis of an Egg-shell,
Would smell a Cooks-shop, and go home and surfeit.
And be a month in fasting out that Fever.