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 drink, I pray thee, to thyself.
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