Fife. Just as you please.
Well—’tis this country’s custom, I suppose,
To take a poor man every now and then
And set him on the throne; just for the fun
Of tumbling him again into the dirt.
And now my turn is come. ’Tis very pretty.
Sol. His wits have been distemper’d with their drugs.
But do you ask him, Captain.
Capt. On my knees,
And in the name of all who kneel with me,