“And what mean your tongue's strange words, Master?” this tapster bawd asked me. To which Will said I should tell him, he was a goodfellow for all he was a tickle-brained varlot like us all.
So I said, “Means God's mercy on you for a good fellow,” which Will laughed loud, and our gallants because Will laughed, and the link boy, and even I did a smile for this, and our link boy clapped his hands like it was a playacting, which of a kind it was, this gleek I made. And this tapster thanked me for my blessing, and gave me his, and had us more beer poured in our cups he didn't this one notch on his reckoning stick, a treat because I gave him a blessing he thought in my tongue from Japan or Cathay or Afrique, he didn't ask which.
So now we was all merry, and began the drinking to get cup-shot fap, which I didn't want to do when this began, this carouse, but I drank enough strong beer already I didn't stop then, which I should.
Which this was the first and only once, this once on a carouse with my Will and the carpet knight Essex men gallants treating the cost, I ever got cup-shot fap. I didn't want this, but I already drunk too much the strong beer with my dinner meats when it started the carouse drinking. Such shikkers!
Tom Tapster the bawd whoremonger said, “An' what drink will pleasure you and your noble friends this night, Master William Kempe?” To which my Will and these gallants and the link boy who stayed with us all talked, should they drink the sweetened wine English called bastard, or maybe aqua vitae, or perry or mead, which they decided to drink the sherry sack English called Bristol Milk because the link boy said he never drank any this before in his life, only mostly small beer and church ales didn't cost so much.
I said, “Will, I don't want no more from drink, already my kopf feels light like it could float off me in the air, and my feet and legs don't feel strong.”
To which he said to me, “Sweet Pinky, I'll see thee a logger-headed, dizzy-eyed flap-dragon ere this night ends, or I'm not rakehell Will Kempe on this a carouse!” And the gallants and also the link boy said I got to drink with them cup for cup if I wasn't a fen-sucked death-token or a ill-nurtured coxcomb, none of which I was, so I did drink.
And sat mostly on our bench and listened and watched all revel in this Cardinal's Hat stew in Southwark. How other gallants went to gaming, playing the game tables, which is backgammon, and dicing and at cards, one game called gleek, the same as a merry sally, they played, and also one called echo, and one called primero, for much monies they gamed, I seen nobles and angels coins passing one to another in this gaming, and they played also at shovel-groat, sliding coins on the wood board laid down on the floor rushes and reeds for this, shouting vile oaths when they lost, and huzzahs when they won, coarse and wild it was, the gaming.
And when we got drinking, my Will made all merry with japes he said.
To one of our carpet knight gallants, the one had St. Anthony's Fire on his punim cheek I think it was, he said, “Devil take thee with me ere dawn, thou bawdy, pox-marked lewdster!” To another he said, “Plague take thee for a yeasty, swag-bellied horn-beast!” which is like saying cuckold wearing horns from sombody shtupped his wife, which I don't think he had one. And to another he said, “What's this in mine eyes if not a surly, tottering, folly-fallen foot-licker,” and even to the link boy he said, ”Art a puking, clay-brained, milk-livered, marsh-chick minnow wouldst lie by its mother did you ever know her, thou rude-growing small wagtail, an' if you remember her from the ditch or hedge whereat she dropped ye!” To which they all laughed and gave hands, the clapping, like it was a jig performance in theater Will did, which it was except we wasn't paid for this performance.
Which I was thinking all the time I was drinking sherry sack, the Bristol Milk sweet on my tongue, warming me, drinking with everyone by our table cup for cup, getting myself fap drunk, such a waste it was for Will Kempe to be doing japes and mean sallies for no monies, except our Essex men gallants was to pay the reckoning the tapster bawd notched on his stick every time a wench in her shift only, showing bosoms and bare leg, took our cups to fill from a keg, so it was like paid for performance, and what I was drinking was my share as impresario, except I didn't make the arrangement this performance, it was just a carouse. Which, a carouse, is a waste, I still think.
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