Tap. You're welcome, gentlemen; here's a cup of the best ale in London.
Bris. How? gentlemen? untutored slave, saucy villain! Gentlemen? why, sirrah, do I look like a gentleman? I scorn thy terms, and let this kick put thee in mind of better language.
Bung. Cry you mercy, I mistook you indeed.
Heath. Sirrah, we'll make you know who you mistake; call one of your master's best customers gentleman!
Bung. [To some one outside.] Anon, anon, sir; I'll be with you presently.
Bris. Sirrah, bid your master come in.
[Exit Tapster.
Gum. Come, here's a round to the first inventor of the famous art of drinking.
Bris. No, no; to the first finder out of the noble art of brewing; for we should be forced to drink water else.
Heath. To neither; but to the first most commendable alehouse-keeper that sold three cans for twopence; he is the chief benefactor we have. Come, three cans to his health!