Faith Sir, here are no Oats to be got, unless you'l have 'em in Porredge: the people are so mainly given to spoon-meat: yonder's a cast of Coach-mares of the Gentlewomans, the strangest Cattel. (Wel: Why?) Why, they are transparent Sir, you may see through them: and such a house! (Wel: Come Sir, the truth of your discovery.) Sir, they are in tribes like Jewes: the Kitchin and the Dayrie make one tribe, and have their faction and their fornication within themselves; the Buttery and the Landry are another, and there's no love lost; the chambers are intire, and what's done there, is somewhat higher than my knowledge: but this I am sure, between these copulations, a stranger is kept vertuous, that is, fasting. But of all this the drink Sir. Wel. What of that Sir? Ser. Faith Sir, I will handle it as the time and your patience will give me leave. This drink, or this cooling Julip, of which three spoonfuls kills the Calenture, a pint breeds the cold Palsie. Wel. Sir, you bely the house. Ser. I would I did Sir. But as I am a true man, if 'twere but one degree colder, nothing but an Asses hoof would hold it. Wel. I am glad on't Sir, for if it had proved stronger, you had been tongue ti'd of these commendations. Light me the candle Sir, I'le hear no more. [ (Exeunt.) (Enter young.) Loveless and his Comrades, with wenches, and two Fidlers. (Yo. Lo.) Come my brave man of war, trace out thy darling, And you my learned Council, sit and turn boyes, Kiss till the Cow come home, kiss close, kiss close knaves. My Modern Poet, thou shalt kiss in couplets. (Enter with.) Wine. Strike up you merry varlets, and leave your peeping, This is no pay for Fidlers.

Ser Monologue from The Scornful Lady

Rehearse Ser's monologue