First Counsel. He is sullen, and refuses.

Court. Is he so? Why then let the constable hold it up, nolens volens.

[Which was done, according to order.]

Court. What is the prisoner’s name?

Constable. P-P-Po-rt-er, an’t please your worship.

Court. What does the fellow say?

Constable. Porter! an’t please you; Porter!

Mat. He says Porter. It’s the name of a liquor the London kennel[59] much delight in.

Ponser. Ay, ’tis so; and I remember another namesake of his. I was hand in glove with him, I’ll tell you a droll story about him—