Cap. No; he's fast.
Pet. Let us take, then,
Our morning draught. Such as eat store of beef,
Mutton, and capons, may preserve their healths
With that thin composition call'd small beer,
As, 'tis said, they do in England. But Italians,
That think when they have supp'd upon an olive,
A root, or bunch of raisins, 'tis a feast,
Must kill those crudities rising from cold herbs,
With hot and lusty wines.
Cap. A happiness
Those tramontanes[70] ne'er tasted.
Bern. Have they not
Store of wine there?
Cap. Yes, and drink more in two hours
Than the Dutchmen or the Dane in four and twenty.
Pet. But what is 't? French trash, made of rotten grapes,
And dregs and lees of Spain, with Welsh metheglin,
A drench to kill a horse! But this pure nectar,
Being proper to our climate, is too fine
To brook the roughness of the sea: the spirit
Of this begets in us quick apprehensions,
And active executions; whereas their
Gross feeding makes their understanding like it:
They can fight, and that's their all. [They drink.
Enter Sanazarro and Servani.
Sanaz. Security
Dwells about this house, I think; the gate's wide open,
And not a servant stirring. See the horses
Set up, and clothed.
Serv. I shall, sir. [Exit.
Sanaz. I'll make bold
To press a little further.