[Exit DRAWER.
ILF. Hurt him! hang him, scrapetrencher, stair-wearer,[381] wine-spiller, metal-clanker, rogue by generation. Why, dost hear, Will? If thou dost not use these grape-spillers as you do their pottle-pots, quoit them down-stairs three or four times at a supper, they'll grow as saucy with you as serjeants, and make bills more unconscionable than tailors.
Enter DRAWER.
DRAW. Here's the pure and neat grape, gentlemen, I assure you.[382]
ILF. Fill up: what have you brought here, goodman rogue?
DRAW. The pure element of claret, sir.
ILF. Have you so, and did not I call for Rhenish, you mongrel?
[Throws the wine in the DRAWER'S face.
SCAR. Thou need'st no wine; I prythee, be more mild.
ILF. Be mild in a tavern? 'tis treason to the red lattice,[383] enemy to their sign-post, and slave to humour: prythee, let's be mad.