Hasting to those
Who will feast us at night with a pig's petty-toes.
1st King. And we'll fall with our plate
In an ollio of hate.
2nd King. But now supper's done, the servitors try,
Like soldiers, to storm a whole half-moon pie.
1st King. They gather, they gather hot custards in spoons:
But alas, I must leave these half-moons,
And repair to my trusty dragoons.
2nd King. Oh, stay, for you need not as yet go astray: