Pan. What chance of fortune hath tripp’d up his heels, And laid him in the kennel, ha?
Alb. I will discourse it all. Poor honest soul,
Hadst thou a beaver to clasp up thy face,
Thou should’st associate us in masquery,
And see revenge.
Bal. Nay, and you talk of revenge, my stomach’s up, for I am most tyrannically hungry. A beaver! I have a headpiece, a skull, a brain of proof, I warrant ye. 71
Alb. Slink to my chamber then, and tire thee.
Bal. Is there a fire?
Alb. Yes.
Bal. Is there a fat leg of ewe mutton?
Alb. Yes.
Bal. And a clean shirt?
Alb. Yes.