Sue. Thanks, most ingenious sir.
Tim. She's a little shame-faced. The deeper the sweeter, forsooth.
Alex. Pox on you for a coxcomb!
Enter Ancient Young [standing aside].
Anc. I' th' next room I have seen and heard all. O noble soldiers!
Tim. Here, boys, give us some more wine. There's a hundred marks, gallants; 'tis your own, an' do but let me bear an office amongst ye. I know as great a matter has been done for as small a sum. Pray let me follow the fashion.
Capt. Well, for once take up the money. Give me a cup of sack, and give me your hand, sir; and, because our Flemish corporal was lately choked at Delft with a flap-dragon,[57] bear you his name and place, and be henceforth called Corporal Cods-head. Let the health go round!
Tim. Round! An' this go not round!—Some wine there, tapster. Is there ne'er a tapster i' th' house? [Ancient shows himself.
Alex. My worthy friend, thou'rt master of thy word. Gentlemen, 'tis Ancient Young; you're soldiers; come, come, save cap: compliment in cup. Prythee, sit down.
Anc. Are you a captain, sir?