_ No, by no means,
That goes no further than the street, there leaves us,
Now we must think of something that must draw us
Into the bowels of it, into th' buttery,
Into the Kitchin, into the Cellar, something
That that old drunken Burgo-master loves,
What think ye of a wassel?
_Hig._ I think worthily.
_Prig._ And very fit it should be, thou, and _Ferret_,
And _Ginks_ to sing the Song: I for the structure,
Which is the bowl.
_Hig._ Which must be up-sey _English_,
Strong, lusty _London_ beer; let's think more of it.
_Ger._ He must not marry.
_Enter_ Hubert.
_Hub._ By your leave in private,
One word Sir, with ye; _Gerrard_: do not start me,
I know ye, and he knows ye, that best loves ye:
_Hubert_ speaks to ye, and you must be _Gerrard_.
The time invites you to it.
_Ger._ Make no show then,
I am glad to see you Sir; and I am _Gerrard_.
How stand affairs?
_Hub._ Fair, if ye dare now follow,
_Hemskirk_ I have let goe, and these my causes,
I'le tell ye privately, and how I have wrought him,
And then to prove me honest to my friends,
Look upon these directions, you have seen his.
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