ke me.

COB. Nay, I have my rheum, and I be angry as well as
another, sir.

PIE. Thy rheum? thy humour, man, thou mistakest.

COB. Humour? mack, I think it be so indeed: what is
this humour? it's some rare thing, I warrant.

PIS. Marry, I'll tell thee what it is (as 'tis generally
received in these days): it is a monster bred in a man by
self-love and affectation, and fed by folly.

COB. How? must it be fed?

PIS. Oh ay, humour is nothing if it be not fed, why,
didst thou never hear of that? it's a common phrase,
"Feed my humour."

COB. I'll none on it: humour, avaunt, I know you not,
be gone. Let who will make hungry meals for you, it shall
not be I: Feed you, quoth he? 'sblood, I have much ado to
feed myself, especially on these lean rascal days too,
an't had been any other day but a fasting day: a plague on
them all for me: by this light, one might have done God
good service and have drown'd them all in the flood two or
three hundred thousand years ago, oh, I do stomach them
hugely: I have a maw now, an't were for Sir Bevis's horse.

PIS. Nay, but I pray thee, Cob, what makes thee so out of
love with fasting days?

COB. Marry, that that will make any man out of love with
them, I think: their bad conditions, an you will needs know:
First, they are of a Flemish breed, I am sure on't, for
they raven up more butter than all the days of the week
beside: next, they stink of fish miserably: thirdly, they'll
keep a man devoutly hungry all day, and at night send him
supperless to bed.

PIS. Indeed, these are faults, Cob.

COB. Nay, an this were all, 'twere something, but they
are the only known enemies to my generation. A fasting
day no sooner comes, but my lineage goes to rack, poor
Cobs, they smoke for it, they melt in passion, and your
maids too know this, and yet would have me turn Hannibal,
and eat my own fish and blood: my princely coz,
[PULLS OUT A RED HERRING.] fear nothing;
I have not the heart to devour you, an I might be made
as rich as Golias: oh, that I had room for my tears, I
could weep salt water enough now to preserve the lives
of ten thousand of my kin: but I may curse none but
these filthy Almanacks, for an 'twere not for them, these
days of persecution would ne'er be known. I'll be hang'd
an some fishmonger's son do not make on them, and put