Fal.

Bardolph, I say.

Bard.

Here, Sir.

Fal.

Go fetch me a quart of sack, put a toast in't. [Exit Bard.] Have I liv'd to be carry'd, in a basket, like a barrow of butchers' offal, and to be thrown into the Thames? well, if I be serv'd such another trick, I'll have my brains ta'en out and butter'd, and give

them to a dog for a new-year's gift. The rogues slighted me into the river with as little remorse as they would have drown'd a bitch's blind puppies, fifteen i'th' litter; and you may know, by my size, that I have a kind of alacrity in sinking: if the bottom were as deep as hell, I should down. I had been drown'd, but that the shore was shelvy and shallow; a death that I abhor; for the water swells a man: and what a thing should I have been, when I had been swell'd? I should have been a mountain of mummy.

Now, is the Sack brew'd?

Bard.

Here's Mrs. Quickly, Sir, to speak with you.

Fal.

Come, let me pour in some sack to the Thames-water; for my belly's as cold as if I had swallow'd snow-balls, for pills to cool the reins. Call her in.

Bard.

Come in, woman.