Enter Cassio, Montano and Gentlemen; followed by Servant with wine.
CASSIO.
’Fore God, they have given me a rouse already.
MONTANO.
Good faith, a little one; not past a pint, as I am a soldier.
IAGO.
Some wine, ho!
[Sings.]
And let me the cannikin clink, clink,
And let me the cannikin clink, clink:
A soldier’s a man,
O, man’s life’s but a span,
Why then let a soldier drink.
Some wine, boys!
CASSIO.
’Fore God, an excellent song.
IAGO.
I learned it in England, where indeed they are most potent in potting: your Dane, your German, and your swag-bellied Hollander,—drink, ho!—are nothing to your English.
CASSIO.
Is your Englishman so expert in his drinking?
IAGO.
Why, he drinks you, with facility, your Dane dead drunk; he sweats not to overthrow your Almain; he gives your Hollander a vomit ere the next pottle can be filled.