LORD. And livest disgraced.
SCAR. I'll send you shorter to heaven than you came to the earth. Do you catechise? do you catechise? [He draws, and strikes at them.
ILF. Hold, hold! do you draw upon your uncle?
SCAR. Pox of that lord!
We'll meet at th'Mitre, where we'll sup down sorrow,
We are drunk to-night, and so we'll be to-morrow.
[Exeunt.
LORD. Why, now I see: what I heard of, I believed not,
Your kinsman lives—
SIR WIL. Like to a swine.
LORD. A perfect Epythite,[398] he feeds on draff,
And wallows in the mire, to make men laugh:
I pity him.
SIR WIL. No pity's fit for him.
LORD. Yet we'll advise him.