His Hostes chalkt it up behind the doore,
And said, For Cheese (good Sir) Come pay the score:
Cod’s Pluternails (quoth he) what meaneth these?
What dost thou think her knows not Chalk from Cheese?
A SONG.
33. Drink, drink, all you that think
To cure your souls of sadnesse;
Take up your Sack, ’tis all you lack,
All worldly care is madness.