Un. Does not the lyme burne his throat, Thomas?
Tho. Alas, poore gentleman, something now agen is ready to strangle him; out with em,—hides, hides,—it was the hornes stuck in his gullett.
Within. Oh—
Tho. Well straind; what a foule stomack he has! open your mouth, Mr. Engine.
Cap. Throw downe a pottlepot.
Tho. I have, sir, and it has come up full of medium wine; if you have any charity come and helpe me to hold his head; now agen!
Within. Oh, oh, oh!
Un. This is very strange, Captaine; the man is certainely enchanted.
Tho. Master, master, tis Shrovetuesday[267] and the prentices are pulling downe Covent Garden; the Brickes come as whole out as if he had swallowed Cherristones. Hey! will you take Tobacco in the Roll? here is a whole shiplading of Bermudas and one little twopenny paper of berrinas, with a superscription 'To my very loving friends the Custome-house.'
Cap. Put up that for a relique, Thomas, and open it upon high dayes to clear the sore eyes of our Spanish Marchants. Thomas, no more, but call the Drawer, an understanding Drawer and one that writes orthographie.