_Fail._ A bare clinch will serve the turn; a car-wichet, a
quarter-quibble, or a pun.

_Burr_. Wit from a Low Country soldier! One, that has conversed
with none but dull Dutchmen these ten years! What an unreasonable
rogue art thou? why, I tell thee, 'tis as difficult to me, as to pay
him ready money.

_Fail_. Come, you shall be ruled for your own good; I'll
throw the clothes over you to help meditation. And, upon the first
opportunity, start you up, and surprise him with a jest.

_Burr_. Well, I think this impossible to be done: but, however,
I'll attempt. [_Lies down_, FAILER _covers him_.

_Fail_. Husht! he's coming up.

_Enter BIBBER_.

_Bib_. 'Morrow, Mr Failer: What, I warrant you think I come a
dunning now?

_Fail_. No, I vow to gad, Will; I have a better opinion of thy
wit, than to think thou would'st come to so little purpose.

_Bib_. Pretty well that: No, no, my business is to drink my
morning's-draught in sack with you.

_Fail_. Will not ale serve thy turn, Will?