Lus. Ay, best of all.
Ven. Why, then he will ne'er live to be sober.
Lus. No matter, let him reel to hell.
Ven. But being so full of liquor, I fear he will put out all the fire.
Lus. Thou art a mad beast.
Ven. And leave none to warm your lordship's golls[231] withal; for he that dies drunk falls into hell-fire like a bucket of water—qush, qush!
Lus. Come, be ready: nake[232] your swords: think of your wrongs; this slave has injured you.
Ven. Troth, so he has, and he has paid well for't.
Lus. Meet with him now.
Ven. You'll bear us out, my lord?