Ha, thou false fever, wilt thou not be gone?
By my figgins, godmother, I cannot as yet enter in the humour of being merry, nor drink so currently as I would.

You have catched a cold, gammer?
Yea, forsooth, sir.

By the belly of Sanct Buff, let us talk of our drink: I never drink but at my hours, like the Pope's mule.

And I never drink but in my breviary, like a fair father guardian.

Which was first, thirst or drinking?
Thirst, for who in the time of innocence would have drunk without being athirst?
Nay, sir, it was drinking; for privatio praesupponit habitum.