Sings. And let me the canakin clink, clink; And let me the canakin clink A soldier’s a man; A life’s but a span; Why, then, let a soldier drink.

Some wine, boys!

O sweet England! King Stephen was a worthy peer, His breeches cost him but a crown; He held them sixpence all too dear, With that he call’d the tailor lown. He was a wight of high renown, And thou art but of low degree: ’Tis pride that pulls the country down; Then take thine auld cloak about thee. Some wine, ho!

You see this fellow that is gone before; He is a soldier fit to stand by Caesar And give direction: and do but see his vice; ’Tis to his virtue a just equinox, The one as long as the other: ’tis pity of him. I fear the trust Othello puts him in. On some odd time of his infirmity, Will shake this island.

’Tis evermore the prologue to his sleep: He’ll watch the horologe a double set, If drink rock not his cradle.

It were well The general were put in mind of it. Perhaps he sees it not; or his good nature Prizes the virtue that appears in Cassio, And looks not on his evils: is not this true?

And ’tis great pity that the noble Moor Should hazard such a place as his own second With one of an ingraft infirmity: It were an honest action to say So to the Moor.