Hark, how his head aches, and how his pulses do beat:
I think he will be hang'd, his belly is so great.
Hance. Go-Go-God-amercy, good Tom, with all my heart:
New. If thou canst not leap, Hance, let me see thee drink a quart,
And get thee out abroad into the air.
Tom. Tush, he had more need to sleep in this chair.
Sit down, Hance, and thou shalt see anon,
Philip Fleming will come to fetch thee home.
[Hance sitteth in the chair, and snorteth, as though he were fast asleep.