Smith draws himself cider.
Huff:
Haven't you brought your flute? We've all got room
For music in our minds to-night, I'll swear.
Working all day in the sun do seem to push
The thought out of your brain.
Sollers:
O, 'tis the sun
Has trodden on you? That's what makes you croak?
Ay, whistle him somewhat: put a tune in his brain;
He'll else croak us out of pleasure with drinking.
Merrick:
'Tis quenching, I believe. — A tune? Too hot.
You want a fiddler.
Huff:
Nay, I want your flute.
I like a piping sound, not scraping o' guts.
Merrick: