And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs,
If you should smile he grows impatient.
[A Player.] Fear not, my lord: we can contain ourselves,
Were he the veriest antic in the world.
100
Lord. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery,
[And give them friendly welcome every one:]
Let them want nothing that my house affords.
[Exit one with the Players.
Sirrah, go you to [Barthol'mew] my page,