Sir Iohn, you are so fretfull, you cannot liue
long
Falst. Why there is it: Come, sing me a bawdy Song,
make me merry; I was as vertuously giuen, as a Gentleman
need to be; vertuous enough, swore little, dic'd not
aboue seuen times a weeke, went to a Bawdy-house not
aboue once in a quarter of an houre, payd Money that I
borrowed, three or foure times; liued well, and in good
compasse: and now I liue out of all order, out of compasse
Bard. Why, you are so fat, Sir Iohn, that you must
needes bee out of of all compasse; out all reasonable
compasse, Sir Iohn
Falst. Doe thou amend thy Face, and Ile amend thy
Life: Thou art our Admirall, thou bearest the Lanterne
in the Poope, but 'tis in the Nose of thee; thou art the
Knight of the burning Lampe
Bard. Why, Sir Iohn, my Face does you no harme
Falst. No, Ile be sworne: I make as good vse of it, as
many a man doth of a Deaths-Head, or a Memento Mori.
I neuer see thy Face, but I thinke vpon Hell fire, and Diues
that liued in Purple; for there he is in his Robes burning,
burning. If thou wert any way giuen to vertue, I would
sweare by thy Face; my Oath should bee, By this Fire:
But thou art altogether giuen ouer; and wert indeede,
but for the Light in thy Face, the Sunne of vtter Darkenesse.
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