el.

SUM. I would about thy vintage question thee. How thrive thy vines?
hadst thou good store of grapes?

BAC. _Vinum quasi venenum_; Wine is poison to a sick body. A sick body
is no sound body; _ergo_, wine is a pure thing, and is poison to all
corruption. Try-lill! the hunters whoop to you. I'll stand to it:
Alexander was a brave man, and yet an arrant drunkard.

WIN. Fie, drunken sot! forgett'st thou where thou art?
My lord asks thee what vintage thou hast made?

BAC. Our vintage was a vintage, for it did not work upon the advantage:
it came in the vauntguard of Summer.
And winds and storms met it by the way,
And made it cry, alas, and well-a-day!

SUM. That was not well; but all miscarried not?

BAC. Faith, shall I tell no lie? Because you are my countryman, and so
forth; and a good fellow is a good fellow, though he have never a penny
in his purse.[88] We had but even pot-luck--little to moisten our lips
and no more. That same Sol is a pagan and a proselyte: he shined so
bright all summer, that he burnt more grapes than his beams were worth,
were every beam as big as a weaver's beam. _A fabis abstinendum_; faith,
he should have abstained, for what is flesh and blood without his liquor?

AUT. Thou want'st no liquor, nor no flesh and blood.
I pray thee, may I ask without offence,
How many tuns of wine hast in thy paunch?
Methinks that [that is] built like a round church,
Should yet have some of Julius Caesar's wine:
I warrant 'twas not broached this hundred year.

BAC. Hear'st thou, dough-belly! because thou talk'st and talk'st, and
dar'st not drink to me a black jack, wilt thou give me leave to broach
this little kilderkin of my corpse against thy back? I know thou art but
a micher,[89] and dar'st not stand me. _A vous, Monsieur Winter_, a
frolic up-se-frieze:[90] cross, ho.' _super naculum_.[91]
[_Knocks the jack upon his thumb_.

WIN. Gramercy, Bacchus, as much as though I did. For this time thou must
pardon me perforce.

BAC. What, give me the disgrace? go to, I say, I am no Pope to pardon
any man. Ran, ran, tara: cold beer makes good blood. St George for
England![92] Somewhat is better than nothing. Let me see, hast thou done
me justice? why so: thou art a king, though there were no more kings in
the cards but the knave. Summer, wilt thou have a demi-culverin, that
shall cry _Husty-tusty_, and make thy cup fly fine meal in the element?

SUM. No, keep thy drin