Sir, your love has showne it selfe aboundant, but the cold aire
is a meanes to devorce me from your companies: mine host, let me crave
passage to my chamber.
_Host_. Out of my dores, knave; thou enterest not my dores, I have no
chalke in my house, my posts shall not be garded with a little sing
song, _Si nihil attuleris, ibis, Homere, foras_.
_Accut. Ha! how now man? see'st now any errors?
Nay, this is nothing; he hath but showne
A patterne of himself, what thou shalt finde
In others; search through the Globe of earth,
If there mongst twentie two thou doost find
Honester then himself ile be buried straight.
Now thinke what shame tis to be vilde,
And how vilde to be drunk: look round! where?
Nay looke up, beholde yon Christall pallace.
There sits an ubiquitarie Judge
From whom _arcana nulla abscondita_,
That see's all and at pleasure punisheth;
Thou canst not scape scot free, how cans't thou?
Why, sencelesse man in that sinne will betray
His father, brother, nay, himselfe;[312] feares not
To commit the worst of evils, secure if
Thunder-boults should drop from heaven, dreading
Nor heaven, nor hell; indeede his best state
Is worse then least, prised at highest rate.
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