SCAR. Your own, sir? what's your own?
THOM. Our portions given us by our father's will.
JOHN. Which here you spend.
THOM. Consume.
JOHN. Ways worse than ill.
SCAR. Ha, ha, ha!
Enter ILFORD.
ILF. Nay, nay, nay, Will: prythee, come away, we have a full gallon of sack stays in the fire for thee. Thou must pledge it to the health of a friend of thine.
SCAR. What dost think these are, Frank?
ILF. Who? They are fiddlers, I think. If they be, I prythee send them into the next room, and let them scrape there, and we'll send to them presently.