Fare not the birds well, as from spray to spray / Blithsome they bound—yet find their simple food / Scattered abundantly?

Ol. Go too, y'are a dry foole: Ile no more of you: besides you grow dis-honest. Clo. Two faults Madona, that drinke & good counsell wil amend: for giue the dry foole drink, then is the foole not dry[…]

Then I'd spend Saturday a bundle of hangover nerves, waiting for Saturday wine o'clock to make it disappear.

Tired of this popinjay's stupid vanity and stilted affectation, and having a cheerless and dreary prospect before him, he reflected that every thing is worth something.