make use of his wealth,
as the sun of ice: melt it, melt it.

ILF. But art sure he will hold his meeting?

WEN. As sure as I am now, and was dead drunk last night.

ILF. Why then so sure will I be arrested by a couple of serjeants, and
fall into one of the unlucky cranks about Cheapside, called Counters.

BAR. Withal, I have provided Master Gripe the usurer, who upon the
instant will be ready to step in, charge the serjeants to keep thee
fast, and that now he will have his five hundred pounds, or thou shalt
rot for it.

WEN. When it follows, young Scarborow shall be bound for the one; then
take up as much more. We share the one-half, and help him to be drunk
with the other.

ILF. Ha, ha, ha!

_Enter_ SCARBOROW.

BAR. Why dost laugh, Frank?

ILF. To see that we and usurers live by the fall of young heirs, as
swine by the dropping of acorns. But he's come. Where be these rogues:
shall we have no 'tendance here?

SCAR. Good day, gentlemen.

ILF. A thousand good days, my noble bully, and as many good fortunes as
there were grasshoppers in Egypt, and that's covered over with good
luck. But nouns, pronouns and participles! where be these rogues here?
what, shall we have no wine here?

_Enter_ DRAWER.

DRAW. Anon, anon, sir.

ILF. Anon, goodman rascal, must we stay your leisure? give't us by and
by, with a pox to you.

SCAR. O, do not hurt the fellow.

[_Exit_ DRAWER.

ILF. Hurt him! hang him, scrapetrencher, stair-wearer,[381]
wine-spiller, metal-clanker, rogue by generation. Why, dost hear, Will?
If thou dost not use these grape-spillers as you do their pottle-pots,
quoit them down-stairs three or four times at a supper, they'll grow as
saucy with you as serjeants, and make bills more unconscionable than
tailors.

_Enter_ DRAWER.

DRAW. Here's the pure and neat grape, gentlemen, I assure you.[382]

ILF. Fill up: what have you brought here, goodman rogue?

DRAW. The pure element of claret, sir.

ILF. Have you so, and did not I call for Rhenish, you mongrel?

[_Throws the wine in the_ DRAWER'S _face_.

SCAR. Thou need'st no wine; I prythee, be more mild.

ILF. Be mild in a tavern? 'tis treason to the red lattice,[383] enemy to
their sign-post, and slave to humour: prythee, let's be mad.

_Sings this.

Then fill our heads with wine
Till every pate be drunk, then piss i'the street,
Jostle all you meet,
And swagger with a