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the world reports this of you, mistress, that a man can no sooner come to your house, but the butler comes with a black-jack, and says, "Welcome, friend, here's a cup of the best for you," verily, mistress, you are said to have the best ale in all Scotland. _Countess._ Sirrah, go fetch him drink [_an attendant brings drink._] How likest thou this? _Slip._ Like it mistress! why this is quincy quarie, pepper de watchet, single goby, of all that ever I tasted. I'll prove in this ale, and toast the compass of the whole world. First, this is the earth; it ties in the middle a fair brown toast, a goodly country for hungry teeth to dwell upon; next this is the sea, a fair pool for a dry tongue to fish in; now come I, and seeing the world is naught, I divide it thus: and because the sea cannot stand without the earth, as Aristotle saith, I put them both into their first chaos, which is my belly, and so, mistress, you may see your ale is become a miracle. Further on Slipper again shows his readiness in dialogue-- _Sir Bartram._ Ho, fellow! stay and let me speak with thee. _Slip._ Fellow! friend thou dost abuse me: I am a gentleman. _Sir B._ A gentleman! how so? _Slip._ Why, I rub horses, Sir. _Sir B._ And what of that? _Slip._ O simple-witted! mark my reason. They that do good service in the commonweal are gentlemen, but such as rub horses do good service in the commonweal, _ergo_, tarbox, master courtier, a horse-keeper is a gentleman. _Sir B._ Here is over much wit in good earnest. But, sirrah, where is thy master? _Slip._ Neither above ground nor under ground; drawing out red into white, swallowing that down without chawing, which was never made without treading. _Sir B._ Why, where is he then? _Slip._ Why in his cellar, drinking a cup of neat and brisk claret in a bowl of silver. Oh, Sir, the wine runs trillill down his throat, which cost the poor vintner many a stamp before it was made. But I must hence, Sir, I have haste. Sir Bertram intimates that he wants his assistance, and will pay him. _Slip._ A good word, thou hast won me; this word is like a warm caudle to a cold stomach. _Sir B._ Sirrah, wilt thou for money and reward Convey me certain letters, out of hand, From out thy master's pocket?
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