Spend. A pottle, sirrah; do you hear?
Drawer. Yes, sir, you shall.
Spend. How now, wench! how dost?
Tickle. Faith, I am somewhat sick; yet I should be well enough if I had a new gown.
Spend. Why, here's my hand; within these three days thou shalt have one.
Sweat. And will you, son, remember me for a new forepart? by my troth, my old one is worn so bare, I am ashamed anybody should see't.
Spend. Why, did I ever fail of my promise?
Sweat. No, in sincerity, didst thou not.
Enter Drawer.
Drawer. Here's a cup of rich ipocras.
[Exit.