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—