Hees in a fine taking, is he not?
Coom. Whope, Hodge! where art thou, man, where art thou?
Hodge. O, in a well.
Co. In a well, man! nay, then, thou art deepe in understanding.
Fran. I, once to day you were almost so, sir. 81
Coom. Who, I! go to, young maister, I do not like this humor in ye, I tell ye true; give every man his due, and give him no more: say I was in such a case! go to, tis the greatest indignation that can be offered to a man; and, but a mans more godlier given, you were able to make him sweare out his heart bloud. What though that honest Hodge have cut his finger heere? or, as some say, cut a feather? what thogh he be mump, misled, blind, or as it were? tis no consequent to me: you know I have drunke all the ale-houses in Abington drie, and laide the tappes on the tables when I had done: sbloud, Ile challenge all the true rob-pots in Europe to leape up to the chinne in a barrell of beere, and if I cannot drinke it down to my foote ere I leave, and then set the tap in the midst of the house, and then turne a good turne on the toe on it, let me be counted nobodie, a pingler,[1721]—nay, let me be[1722] bound to drinke nothing but small beere seven yeares after; and I had as leefe be hanged. 97
Enter Nicholas.
Fran. Peace, sir, I must speake with one.—Nicholas, I think, your name is.
Nich. True as the skinne betweene your browes. 100
Fran. Well, how doth thy maister?