Page:Works of Sir John Suckling.djvu/192

172 Tamoren. 'Tis a sad story. Within there!

Let them have wine and fire. But hark you.

Thieves. A prize! A prize! A prize!

Peridor. Set him down.

''Poet. And for the blue,''

Give him a cup of sack, 'twill mend his hue.

Peridor. Drunk, as I live! [Pinch him, pinch him.] What art?

Poet. I am a poet,

A poor dabbler in rhyme.

Peridor. Come, confess, confess.

Poet. I do confess, I do want money.

Peridor. By the description he's a poet indeed.

Well, proceed.

Poet. What d'you mean, pox on you?

Prithee, let me alone.

Some candles here! And fill us t'other quart, and fill us, Rogue, drawer, t'other quart. Some small-beer. And for the blue, Give him a cup of sack, 'twill mend his hue.

Tamoren. Set him by, till he's sober.

Come, let's go see our duellist drest.

Tailor. He's something tall; and, for his chin, it has

No bush below: marry, a little wool,

As much as an unripe peach doth wear; just

Enough to speak him drawing towards a man.

Serj. Is he of fury? Will he foin, and give

The mortal touch?

Tailor. O no, he seldom wears

His sword.

''Serj. Topo'' is the word, if he do:

Thy debt, my little myrmidon?

Tailor. A yard and a half, I assure you, without abatement.