And let me the canakin clink A soldier's a man; A life's but a span; Why, then, let a soldier drink. Some wine, boys! 'Fore God, an excellent song. I learned it in England, where, indeed, they are most potent in potting: your Dane, your German, and your swag-bellied Hollander--Drink, ho!--are nothing to your English. Is your Englishman so expert in his drinking? Why, he drinks you, with facility, your Dane dead drunk; he sweats not to overthrow your Almain; he gives your Hollander a vomit, ere the next pottle can be filled. To the health of our general! I am for it, lieutenant; and I'll do you justice. O sweet England! King Stephen was a worthy peer, His breeches cost him but a crown; He held them sixpence all too dear, With that he call'd the tailor lown. He was a wight of high renown, And thou art but of low degree: 'Tis pride that pulls the country down; Then take thine auld cloak about thee. Some wine, ho! Why, this is a more exquisite song than the other. Will you hear't again? No; for I hold him to be unworthy of his place that does those things. Well, God's above all; and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved. It's true, good lieutenant. For mine own part,--no offence to the general, nor any man of quality,--I hope to be saved. And so do I too, lieutenant. Ay, but, by your leave, not before me; the lieutenant is to be saved before the ancient. Let's have no more of this; let's to our affairs.--Forgive us our sins!--Gentlemen, let's look to our business. Do not think, gentlemen. I am drunk: this is my ancient; this is my right hand, and this is my left: I am not drunk now; I can stand well enough, and speak well enough. Excellent well. Why, very well then; you must not think then that I am drunk. To the platform, masters; come, let's set the watch. You see this fellow that is gone before; He is a soldier fit to stand by Caesar And give direction: and do but see his vice; 'Tis to his virtue a just equinox, The one as long as the other: 'tis pity of him. I fear the trust Othello puts him in. On some odd time of his infirmity, Will shake this island. But is he often thus? 'Tis evermore the prologue to his sleep: