Let him go drown,
In as rosy a bumper as ever went down,
As ever went down,
And he'll bob up, he'll bob up, by Bacchus, he will,
As hail a good fellow as ever wet gill!
Here are our masters! I'm gone. A hero may drink, but work—never! [Exit]
Tich. There's more trouble ahead than the claw o' my wit can scratch. Ocrastes' death makes one less in the pother, but I've eyes in my head, and there's no doubt my master is in love with the lady Aratea, and one lover can make more trouble than a score of extra husbands. Well, well, when thy cares bewilder thee take time and wine for thy counsellors. So let it work out. [Exit. Aristocles and Dion appear in hall partly visible through wide open doors, rear. Aristocles enters and comes front. Dion remains without, gazing down, moody and meditative]
Aris. Deep, deep, my thoughts, dive to some bed of death
In my wide-regioned self, nor come again