First Lord. Sirrah, thou fellow, thou must come to the king.
Adam. I will not do a stroke of work to-day, for the ale is good ale, and you can ask but a penny for a pot, no more by the statute.
First Lord. Villain, here's the king; thou must come to him.
Adam. The king come to an ale-house!—Tapster, fill me three pots.—Where's the king? is this he?—Give me your hand, sir: as good ale as ever was tapt; you shall drink while your skin crack.
Rasni. But hearest thou, fellow, who killed this man?
Adam. I'll tell you, sir,—if you did taste of the ale,—all Nineveh hath not such a cup of ale, it flowers in the cup, sir; by my troth, I spent eleven pence, beside three races of ginger—
Rasni. Answer me, knave, to my question, how came this man slain?
Adam. Slain! why [the] ale is strong ale, 'tis huffcap;[85] I warrant you, 'twill make a man well.—Tapster, ho! for the king a cup of ale and a fresh toast; here's two races more.
Alvi. Why, good fellow, the king talks not of drink; he would have thee tell him how this man came dead.
Adam. Dead! nay, I think I am alive yet, and will drink a full pot ere night: but hear ye, if ye be the wench that filled us drink, why, so, do your office, and give us a fresh pot; or if you be the tapster's wife, why, so, wash the glass clean.