NlCH. True as the skin between your brows.
NlCH. Forsooth, live, and the best doth no better.
FRAN. Where is the letter he hath sent me?
FRAN. 'Tis right as Philip said, 'tis a fine fool [_Aside_]. --This letter is directed to my father; I'll carry it to him. Dick Coomes, make him drink. [_Exit_.
COOMES. Ay, I'll make him drunk,[283] and he will.
NICH. Not so, Richard; it is good to be merry and wise.
DICK[284] [COOMES]. Well, Nicholas, as thou art Nicholas, welcome; but as thou art Nicholas and a boon companion, ten times welcome. Nicholas, give me thy hand: shall we be merry? and we shall, say but we shall, and let the first word stand.
NICH. Indeed, as long lives the merry man as the sad; an ounce of debt will not pay a pound of care.
COOMES. Nay, a pound of care will not pay an ounce of debt.
NICH. Well, 'tis a good horse never stumbles: but who lies here?
COOMES. 'Tis our Hodge, and I think he lies asleep: you made him drunk at your house to-day; but I'll pepper some of you for't.
NICH. Ay, Richard, I know you'll put a man over the shoes, and if you can; but he's a fool will take more than will do him good.
COOMES. 'Sblood, ye shall take more than will do ye good, or I'll make ye clap under the table.
NICH. Nay, I hope, as I have temperance to forbear drink, so have I patience to endure drink: I'll do as company doth; for when a man doth to Rome come, he must do as there is done.[285]
COOMES. Ha, my resolved Nick, froligozene! Fill the pot, hostess; swouns, you whore! Harry Hook's a rascal. Help me, but carry my fellow Hodge in, and we'll c'rouse[286] it, i'faith.
PHIL. By this, I think, the letter is delivered, And 'twill be shortly time that I step in, And woo their favours for my sister's fortune: And yet I need not; she may do as well, But yet not better, as the case doth stand, Between our mothers; it may make them friends; Nay, I would swear that she would do as well, Were she a stranger to one quality, But they are so acquainted, they'll ne'er part. Why, she will flout the devil, and make blush The boldest face of man that e'er man saw; He that hath best opinion of his wit, And hath his brainpan fraught with bitter jests, Or of his own, or stol'n, or howsoever, Let him stand ne'er so high in his own conceit, Her wit's a sun that melts him down like butter, And makes him sit at table pancake-wise, Flat, flat, God knows, and ne'er a word to say; Yet she'll not leave him then, but like a tyrant She'll persecute the poor wit-beaten man, And so bebang him with dry bobs and scoffs, When he is down, most coward-like, good faith, As I have pitied the poor patient. There came a farmer's son a-wooing to her, A proper man: well-landed too he was, A man that for his wit need not to ask What time a year 'twere good to sow his oats, Nor yet his barley; no, nor when to reap, To plough his fallows, or to fell his trees, Well-experienc'd thus each kind of way; After a two months' labour at the most-- And yet 'twas well he held it out so long-- He left his love, she had so lac'd his lips He could say nothing to her but "God be with ye!" Why she, when men have din'd and call for cheese, Will straight maintain jests bitter to disgest;[287] And then some one will fall to argument, Who if he over-master her with reason, Then she'll begin to buffet him with mocks. Well, I do doubt Francis hath so much spleen, They'll ne'er agree; but I will moderate. By this time it is time, I think, to enter: This is the house; shall I knock? no; I will not. [Nor] wait, while one comes out to answer [me]:[288] I'll in, and let them be as bold with us. [_Exit_.