Here’s a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of Hell Gate, he should have old turning the key.
Knock, knock, knock! Who’s there, i’ th’ name of Belzebub? Here’s a farmer, that hang’d himself on th’ expectation of plenty. Come in time! Have napkins enow about you, here You’ll sweat for’t.
Knock, knock! Who’s there, in th’ other devil’s name? Faith, here’s an equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treason enough for God’s sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven. O, come in, equivocator.
Knock, knock, knock! Who’s there? Faith, here’s an English tailor come hither for stealing out of a French hose. Come in, tailor, here you may roast your goose.
Knock, knock! Never at quiet! What are you? But this place is too cold for hell. I’ll devil—porter it no further. I had thought to have let in some of all professions that go the primrose way to th’ everlasting bonfire.
I pray you remember the porter.
Faith, we were carousing till the second cock; and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things. Marry, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes: it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves him. I believe drink gave me the lie last night. That it did i’ the very throat on me; but I requited him for his lie, and (I think) being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast him.