Crosse not my humor, with an ill plac’d worde,
For if thou doest, behold my fatall sworde:
Do’st see my countenance begin looke red?
Let that fore-tell ther’s furie in my hed.
A little discontent will quickely heate it.
Touch not my stake, thou wert as good to eate it,
These damned dice how cursed they devoure:
I lost some halfe score pound in halfe an houre.
A bowle of wine, sirha: you villaine, fill:
Who drawes it Rascall? call me hether Will.
You Rogue, what ha’st to Supper for my dyet?
Tel’st me of Butchers meate? knave I defie it.
Ile have a banquet to envite an Earle,
A Phœnix boyld in broth distil’d in Pearle.
Holde drie this leafe, a candle quickly bring,
Ile take one pipe to bed, none other thing.
Thus with Tabacco he will sup to night:
Flesh-meate is heavie, and his purse is light.