OY WITH WINE.
CAR. Come, come, leave these fustian protestations; away, come, I cannot
abide these grey-headed ceremonies. Boy, fetch me a glass quickly, I may
bid these gentlemen welcome; give them a health here. [EXIT BOY.] I
mar'le whose wit it was to put a prologue in yond' sackbut's mouth; they
might well think he'd be out of tune, and yet you'd play upon him too.

COR. Hang him, dull block!

CAR. O, good words, good words; a well-timber'd fellow, he would have made
a good column, an he had been thought on, when the house was a building --
[RE-ENTER BOY WITH GLASSES..
O, art thou come? Well said; give me, boy; fill so! Here's a cup of wine
sparkles like a diamond. Gentlewomen (I am sworn to put them in first) and
gentlemen, around, in place of a bad prologue, I drink this good draught to
your health here, Canary, the very elixir and spirit of wine. [DRINKS.]
This is that our poet calls Castalian liquor, when he comes abroad now and
then, once in a fortnight, and makes a good meal among players, where he
has 'caninum appetitum'; marry, at home he keeps a good philosophical diet,
beans and butter-milk; an honest pure rogue, he will take you off three,
four, five of these, one after another, and look villainously when he has
done, like a one-headed Cerberus. -- He does not hear me, I hope. -- And
then, when his belly is well ballaced, and his brain rigged a little, he
snails away withal, as though he would work wonders when he comes home. He
has made a play here, and he calls it, 'Every Man out of his Humour': but
an he get me out of the humour he has put me in, I'll trust none of his
tribe again while I live. Gentles, all I can say for him is, you are
welcome. I could wish my bottle here amongst you; but there's an old rule,
No pledging your own health. Marry, if any here be thirsty for it, their
best way (that I know) is, sit still, seal up their lips, and drink so much
of the play in at their ears.
[EXIT.

MIT. What may this fellow be, Cordatus?

COR. Faith, if the time will suffer his description, I'll give it you. He
is one, the author calls him Carlo Buffone, an impudent common jester, a
violent railer, and an incomprehensible epicure; one whose company is
desired of all men, but beloved of none; he will sooner lose his soul than
a jest, and profane even the most holy things, to excite lau