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: