CLOWN. I was none of his god-father.
ILF. Does Master Scarborow lie here?
CLOWN. I'll give you a rhyme for that, sir—
Sick men may lie, and dead men in their graves.
Few else do lie abed at noon, but drunkards, punks, and knaves.
ILF. What am I the better for thy answer?
CLOWN. What am I the better for thy question?
ILF. Why, nothing.
CLOWN. Why, then, of nothing comes nothing.
Enter SCARBOROW.
WEN. 'Sblood, this is a philosophical fool.
CLOWN. Then I, that am a fool by art, am better than you, that are fools by nature. [Exit.