To-morrow I intend to hunt again.
First Hun. I will, my lord.
Lord. What's here? one dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe?
Sec. Hun. He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm'd with ale,
This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly.
Lord. O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies!
Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image!
Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man.
What think you, if he were convey'd to bed,