PHIL. Dick Coomes, methinks thou art[233] very pleasant:
Where[234] got'st thou this merry humour?
COOMES. In your father's cellar, the merriest place in th' house.
PHIL. Then you have been carousing hard?
COOMES. Yes, faith, 'tis our custom, when your father's men and we meet.
PHIL. Thou art very welcome thither, Dick.
COOMES. By God, I thank ye, sir, I thank ye, sir: by God, I have a quart of wine for ye, sir, in any place of the world. There shall not a servingman in Barkshire fight better for ye than I will do, if you have any quarrel in hand: you shall have the maidenhead of my new sword; I paid a quarter's wages for't, by Jesus.
PHIL. O, this meat-failer Dick!
How well't has made the apparel of his wit,
And brought it into fashion of an honour!
Prythee, Dick Coomes, but tell me how thou dost?
COOMES. Faith, sir, like a poor man of service.
PHIL. Or servingman.
COOMES. Indeed, so called by the vulgar.