"We such clusters hadAs made us nobly wild, not mad,And yet each verse of thineOutdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine."
But the patronage of the court failed in the days of King Charles, though Jonson was not without royal favours; and the old poet returned to the stage, producing, between 1625 and 1633, "The Staple of News," "The New Inn," "The Magnetic Lady," and "The Tale of a Tub," the last doubtless revised from a much earlier comedy. None of these plays met with any marked success, although the scathing generalisation of Dryden that designated them "Jonson's dotages" is unfair to their genuine merits. Thus the idea of an office for the gathering, proper dressing, and promulgation of news (wild flight of the fancy in its time) was an excellent subject for satire on the existing absurdities among newsmongers; although as much can hardly be said for "The Magnetic Lady," who, in her bounty, draws to her personages of differing humours to reconcile them in the end according to the alternative title, or "Humours Reconciled." These last plays of the old dramatist revert to caricature and the hard lines of allegory; the moralist is more than ever present, the satire degenerates into personal lampoon, especially of his sometime friend, Inigo Jones, who appears unworthily to have used his influence at court against the broken-down old poet. And now disease claimed Jonson, and he was bedridden for months. He had succeeded Middleton in 1628 as Chronologer to the City of London, but lost the post for not fulfilling its duties. King Charles befriended him, and even commissioned him to write still for the entertainment of the court; and he was not without the sustaining hand of noble patrons and devoted friends among the younger poets who were proud to be "sealed of the tribe of Ben."
Jonson died, August 6, 1637, and a second folio of his works, which he had been some time gathering, was printed in 1640, bearing in its various parts dates ranging from 1630 to 1642. It included all the plays mentioned in the foregoing paragraphs, excepting "The Case is Altered;" the masques, some fifteen, that date between 1617 and 1630; another collection of lyrics and occasional poetry called "Underwoods", including some further entertainments; a translation of "Horace's Art of Poetry" (also published in a vicesimo quarto in 1640), and certain fragments and ingatherings which the poet would hardly have included himself. These last comprise the fragment (less than seventy lines) of a tragedy called "Mortimer his Fall," and three acts of a pastoral drama of much beauty and poetic spirit, "The Sad Shepherd." There is also the exceedingly interesting "English Grammar" "made by Ben Jonson for the benefit of all strangers out of his observation of the English language now spoken and in use," in Latin and English; and "Timber, or Discoveries" "made upon men and matter as they have flowed out of his daily reading, or had their reflux to his peculiar notion of the times." The "Discoveries," as it is usually called, is a commonplace book such as many literary men have kept, in which their reading was chronicled, passages that took their fancy translated or transcribed, and their passing opinions noted. Many passages of Jonson's "Discoveries" are literal translations from the authors he chanced to be reading, with the reference, noted or not, as the accident of the moment prescribed. At times he follows the line of Macchiavelli's argument as to the nature and conduct of princes; at others he clarifies his own conception of poetry and poets by recourse to Aristotle. He finds a choice paragraph on eloquence in Seneca the elder and applies it to his own recollection of Bacon's power as an orator; and another on facile and ready genius, and translates it, adapting it to his recollection of his fellow-playwright, Shakespeare. To call such passages — which Jonson never intended for publication — plagiarism, is to obscure the significance of words. To disparage his memory by citing them is a preposterous use of scholarship. Jonson's prose, both in his dramas, in the descriptive comments of his masques, and in the "Discoveries," is characterised by clarity and vigorous directness, nor is it wanting in a fine sense of form or in the subtler graces of diction.
When Jonson died there was a project for a handsome monument to his memory. But the Civil War was at hand, and the project failed. A memorial, not insufficient, was carved on the stone covering his grave in one of the aisles of Westminster Abbey:
"O rare Ben Jonson."
FELIX E. SCHELLING. THE COLLEGE, PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A.
The following is a complete list of his published works: —
DRAMAS:
Every Man in his Humour, 4to, 1601;The Case is Altered, 4to, 1609;Every Man out of his Humour, 4to, 1600;Cynthia's Revels, 4to, 1601;Poetaster, 4to, 1602;Sejanus, 4to, 1605;Eastward Ho (with Chapman and Marston), 4to, 1605;Volpone, 4to, 1607;Epicoene, or the Silent Woman, 4to, 1609 (?), fol., 1616;The Alchemist, 4to, 1612;Catiline, his Conspiracy, 4to, 1611;Bartholomew Fayre, 4to, 1614 (?), fol., 1631;The Divell is an Asse, fol., 1631;The Staple of Newes, fol., 1631;The New Sun, 8vo, 1631, fol., 1692;The Magnetic Lady, or Humours Reconcild, fol., 1640;A Tale of a Tub, fol., 1640;The Sad Shepherd, or a Tale of Robin Hood, fol., 1641;Mortimer his Fall (fragment), fol., 1640.
To Jonson have also been attributed additions to Kyd's Jeronymo, and collaboration in The Widow with Fletcher and Middleton, and in the Bloody Brother with Fletcher.
POEMS:
Epigrams, The Forrest, Underwoods, published in fols., 1616, 1640; Selections: Execration against Vulcan, and Epigrams, 1640; G. Hor. Flaccus his art of Poetry, Englished by Ben Jonson, 1640; Leges Convivialis, fol., 1692. Other minor poems first appeared in Gifford's edition of Works.
PROSE:
Timber, or Discoveries made upon Men and Matter, fol., 1641; The English Grammar, made by Ben Jonson for the benefit of Strangers, fol., 1640.
Masques and Entertainments were published in the early folios.
WORKS:
Fol., 1616, volume. 2, 1640 (1631-41);fol., 1692, 1716-19, 1729;edited by P. Whalley, 7 volumes., 1756;by Gifford (with Memoir), 9 volumes., 1816, 1846;re-edited by F. Cunningham, 3 volumes., 1871;in 9 volumes., 1875;by Barry Cornwall (with Memoir), 1838;by B. Nicholson (Mermaid Series), with Introduction byC. H. Herford, 1893, etc.;Nine Plays, 1904;ed. H. C. Hart (Standard Library), 1906, etc;Plays and Poems, with Introduction by H. Morley (UniversalLibrary), 1885;Plays (7) and Poems (Newnes), 1905;Poems, with Memoir by H. Bennett (Carlton Classics), 1907;Masques and Entertainments, ed. by H. Morley, 1890.
SELECTIONS:
J. A. Symonds, with Biographical and Critical Essay,(Canterbury Poets), 1886;Grosart, Brave Translunary Things, 1895;Arber, Jonson Anthology, 1901;Underwoods, Cambridge University Press, 1905;Lyrics (Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher), the Chap Books,No. 4, 1906;Songs (from Plays, Masques, etc.), with earliest knownsetting, Eragny Press, 1906.
LIFE:
See Memoirs affixed to Works;J. A. Symonds (English Worthies), 1886;Notes of Ben Jonson Conversations with Drummond of Hawthornden;Shakespeare Society, 1842;ed. with Introduction and Notes by P. Sidney, 1906;Swinburne, A Study of Ben Jonson, 1889.
TO THE TRULY NOBLE BY ALL TITLES SIR FRANCIS STUART
Sir,
My hope is not so nourished by example, as it will conclude, this dumb piece should please you, because it hath pleased others before; but by trust, that when you have read it, you will find it worthy to have displeased none. This makes that I now number you, not only in the names of favour, but the names of justice to what I write; and do presently call you to the exercise of that noblest, and manliest virtue; as coveting rather to be freed in my fame, by the authority of a judge, than the credit of an undertaker. Read, therefore, I pray you, and censure. There is not a line, or syllable in it, changed from the simplicity of the first copy. And, when you shall consider, through the certain hatred of some, how much a man's innocency may be endangered by an uncertain accusation; you will, I doubt not, so begin to hate the iniquity of such natures, as I shall love the contumely done me, whose end was so honourable as to be wiped off by your sentence.
Your unprofitable, but true Lover,
BEN JONSON.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
MOROSE, a Gentleman that loves no noise.
SIR DAUPHINE EUGENIE, a Knight, his Nephew.
NED CLERIMONT, a Gentleman, his Friend.
TRUEWIT, another Friend.
SIR JOHN DAW, a Knight.
SIR AMOROUS LA-FOOLE, a Knight also.
THOMAS OTTER, a Land and Sea Captain.
CUTBEARD, a Barber.
MUTE, one of MOROSE's Servants.
PARSON.
Page to CLERIMONT.
EPICOENE, supposed the Silent Woman.
LADY HAUGHTY, LADY CENTAURE, MISTRESS DOL MAVIS, Ladies Collegiates.
MISTRESS OTTER, the Captain's Wife, MISTRESS TRUSTY, LADY HAUGHTY'S Woman, Pretenders.
Pages, Servants, etc.
SCENE — LONDON.
Truth says, of old the art of making playsWas to content the people; and their praiseWas to the poet money, wine, and bays.But in this age, a sect of writers are,That, only, for particular likings care,And will taste nothing that is popular.With such we mingle neither brains nor breasts;Our wishes, like to those make public feasts,Are not to please the cook's taste, but the guests'.Yet, if those cunning palates hither come,They shall find guests' entreaty, and good room;And though all relish not, sure there will be some,That, when they leave their seats, shall make them say,Who wrote that piece, could so have wrote a play,But that he knew this was the better way.For, to present all custard, or all tart,And have no other meats, to bear a part.Or to want bread, and salt, were but course art.The poet prays you then, with better thoughtTo sit; and, when his cates are all in brought,Though there be none far-fet, there will dear-bought,Be fit for ladies: some for lords, knights, 'squires;Some for your waiting-wench, and city-wires;Some for your men, and daughters of Whitefriars.Nor is it, only, while you keep your seatHere, that his feast will last; but you shall eatA week at ord'naries, on his broken meat:If his muse be true,Who commends her to you.
The ends of all, who for the scene do write,Are, or should be, to profit and delight.And still't hath been the praise of all best times,So persons were not touch'd, to tax the crimes.Then, in this play, which we present to-night,And make the object of your ear and sight,On forfeit of yourselves, think nothing true:Lest so you make the maker to judge you,For he knows, poet never credit gain'dBy writing truths, but things (like truths) well feign'd.If any yet will, with particular sleightOf application, wrest what he doth write;And that he meant, or him, or her, will say:They make a libel, which he made a play.
SCENE 1.1.A ROOM IN CLERIMONT'S HOUSE.ENTER CLERIMONT, MAKING HIMSELF READY, FOLLOWED BY HIS PAGE.CLER: Have you got the song yet perfect, I gave you, boy?PAGE: Yes, sir.CLER: Let me hear it.PAGE: You shall, sir, but i'faith let nobody else.CLER: Why, I pray?PAGE: It will get you the dangerous name of a poet in town, sir;besides me a perfect deal of ill-will at the mansion you wot of,whose lady is the argument of it; where now I am the welcomestthing under a man that comes there.CLER: I think, and above a man too, if the truth were rack'd outof you.PAGE: No, faith, I'll confess before, sir. The gentlewomen play withme, and throw me on the bed; and carry me in to my lady; and shekisses me with her oil'd face; and puts a peruke on my head; andasks me an I will wear her gown? and I say, no: and then shehits me a blow o' the ear, and calls me Innocent! and lets me go.CLER: No marvel if the door be kept shut against your master, whenthe entrance is so easy to you—well sir, you shall go there nomore, lest I be fain to seek your voice in my lady's rushes, afortnight hence. Sing, sir.PAGE [SINGS]: Still to be neat, still to be drest—[ENTER TRUEWIT.]TRUE: Why, here's the man that can melt away his time and neverfeels it! What between his mistress abroad, and his ingle athome, high fare, soft lodging, fine clothes, and his fiddle; hethinks the hours have no wings, or the day no post-horse. Well,sir gallant, were you struck with the plague this minute, orcondemn'd to any capital punishment to-morrow, you would beginthen to think, and value every article of your time, esteem itat the true rate, and give all for it.CLER: Why what should a man do?TRUE: Why, nothing; or that which, when it is done, is as idle.Harken after the next horse-race or hunting-match; lay wagers,praise Puppy, or Pepper-corn, White-foot, Franklin; swear uponWhitemane's party; speak aloud, that my lords may hear you;visit my ladies at night, and be able to give them the characterof every bowler or better on the green. These be the thingswherein your fashionable men exercise themselves, and I forcompany.CLER: Nay, if I have thy authority, I'll not leave yet. Come,the other are considerations, when we come to have gray headsand weak hams, moist eyes and shrunk members. We'll think on'em then; and we'll pray and fast.TRUE: Ay, and destine only that time of age to goodness, which ourwant of ability will not let us employ in evil!CLER: Why, then 'tis time enough.TRUE: Yes; as if a man should sleep all the term, and think toeffect his business the last day. O, Clerimont, this time, becauseit is an incorporeal thing, and not subject to sense, we mockourselves the fineliest out of it, with vanity and miseryindeed! not seeking an end of wretchedness, but only changing thematter still.CLER: Nay, thou wilt not leave now—TRUE: See but our common disease! with what justice can we complain,that great men will not look upon us, nor be at leisure to giveour affairs such dispatch as we expect, when we will never do itto ourselves? nor hear, nor regard ourselves?CLER: Foh! thou hast read Plutarch's morals, now, or some suchtedious fellow; and it shews so vilely with thee! 'fore God, 'twillspoil thy wit utterly. Talk me of pins, and feathers, andladies, and rushes, and such things: and leave this Stoicityalone, till thou mak'st sermons.TRUE: Well, sir; if it will not take, I have learn'd to lose aslittle of my kindness as I can. I'll do good to no man against hiswill, certainly. When were you at the college?CLER: What college?TRUE: As if you knew not!CLER: No faith, I came but from court yesterday.TRUE: Why, is it not arrived there yet, the news? A new foundation,sir, here in the town, of ladies, that call themselves thecollegiates, an order between courtiers and country-madams,that live from their husbands; and give entertainment to all thewits, and braveries of the time, as they call them: cry down, orup, what they like or dislike in a brain or a fashion, with mostmasculine, or rather hermaphroditical authority; and every daygain to their college some new probationer.CLER: Who is the president?TRUE: The grave, and youthful matron, the lady Haughty.CLER: A pox of her autumnal face, her pieced beauty! there's no mancan be admitted till she be ready, now-a-days, till she haspainted, and perfumed, and wash'd, and scour'd, but the boy here;and him she wipes her oil'd lips upon, like a sponge. I have madea song, I pray thee hear it, on the subject.PAGE. [SINGS.]Still to be neat, still to be drest,As you were going to a feast;Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd;Lady, it is to be presumed,Though art's hid causes are not found,All is not sweet, all is not sound.Give me a look, give me a face,That makes simplicity a grace;Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:Such sweet neglect more taketh me,Then all the adulteries of art;They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.TRUE: And I am clearly on the other side: I love a good dressingbefore any beauty o' the world. O, a woman is then like adelicate garden; nor is there one kind of it; she may vary everyhour; take often counsel of her glass, and choose the best. Ifshe have good ears, shew them; good hair, lay it out; goodlegs, wear short clothes; a good hand, discover it often;practise any art to mend breath, cleanse teeth, repair eye-brows;paint, and profess it.CLER: How? publicly?TRUE: The doing of it, not the manner: that must be private. Manythings that seem foul in the doing, do please done. A ladyshould, indeed, study her face, when we think she sleeps; nor,when the doors are shut, should men be enquiring; all is sacredwithin, then. Is it for us to see their perukes put on, theirfalse teeth, their complexion, their eye-brows, their nails? Yousee guilders will not work, but inclosed. They must not discoverhow little serves, with the help of art, to adorn a great deal.How long did the canvas hang afore Aldgate? Were the peoplesuffered to see the city's Love and Charity, while they were rudestone, before they were painted and burnish'd? No: no more shouldServants approach their mistresses, but when they are complete andfinish'd.CLER: Well said, my Truewit.TRUE: And a wise lady will keep a guard always upon the place, thatshe may do things securely. I once followed a rude fellow into achamber, where the poor madam, for haste, and troubled, snatch'dat her peruke to cover her baldness; and put it on the wrong way.CLER: O prodigy!TRUE: And the unconscionable knave held her in complement an hourwith that reverst face, when I still look'd when she should talkfrom the t'other side.CLER: Why, thou shouldst have relieved her.TRUE: No, faith, I let her alone, as we'll let this argument, if youplease, and pass to another. When saw you Dauphine Eugenie?CLER: Not these three days. Shall we go to him this morning? he isvery melancholy, I hear.TRUE: Sick of the uncle? is he? I met that stiff piece offormality, his uncle, yesterday, with a huge turban of night-capson his head, buckled over his ears.CLER: O, that's his custom when he walks abroad. He can endure nonoise, man.TRUE: So I have heard. But is the disease so ridiculous in him as itis made? They say he has been upon divers treaties with thefish-wives and orange-women; and articles propounded betweenthem: marry, the chimney-sweepers will not be drawn in.CLER: No, nor the broom-men: they stand out stiffly. He cannotendure a costard-monger, he swoons if he hear one.TRUE: Methinks a smith should be ominous.CLER: Or any hammer-man. A brasier is not suffer'd to dwell in theparish, nor an armourer. He would have hang'd a pewterer's prenticeonce on a Shrove-tuesday's riot, for being of that trade, when therest were quit.TRUE: A trumpet should fright him terribly, or the hautboys.CLER: Out of his senses. The waights of the city have a pension ofhim not to come near that ward. This youth practised on him onenight like the bell-man; and never left till he had brought himdown to the door with a long-sword: and there left himflourishing with the air.PAGE: Why, sir, he hath chosen a street to lie in so narrow at bothends, that it will receive no coaches, nor carts, nor any of thesecommon noises: and therefore we that love him, devise to bring himin such as we may, now and then, for his exercise, to breathe him.He would grow resty else in his ease: his virtue would rust withoutaction. I entreated a bearward, one day, to come down with thedogs of some four parishes that way, and I thank him he did;and cried his games under master Morose's window: till he wassent crying away, with his head made a most bleeding spectacle tothe multitude. And, another time, a fencer marchng to his prize, hadhis drum most tragically run through, for taking that street in hisway at my request.TRUE: A good wag! How does he for the bells?CLER: O, in the Queen's time, he was wont to go out of town everySaturday at ten o'clock, or on holy day eves. But now, by reason ofthe sickness, the perpetuity of ringing has made him devise aroom, with double walls, and treble ceilings; the windows closeshut and caulk'd: and there he lives by candlelight. He turn'd awaya man, last week, for having a pair of new shoes that creak'd.And this fellow waits on him now in tennis-court socks, or slipperssoled with wool: and they talk each to other in a trunk. See, whocomes here![ENTER SIR DAUPHINE EUGENIE.]DAUP: How now! what ail you sirs? dumb?TRUE: Struck into stone, almost, I am here, with tales o' thineuncle. There was never such a prodigy heard of.DAUP: I would you would once lose this subject, my masters, for mysake. They are such as you are, that have brought me into thatpredicament I am with him.TRUE: How is that?DAUP: Marry, that he will disinherit me; no more. He thinks, I andmy company are authors of all the ridiculous Acts and Monuments aretold of him.TRUE: S'lid, I would be the author of more to vex him; that purposedeserves it: it gives thee law of plaguing him. I will tell theewhat I would do. I would make a false almanack; get it printed:and then have him drawn out on a coronation day to the Tower-wharf,and kill him with the noise of the ordnance. Disinherit thee! hecannot, man. Art not thou next of blood, and his sister's son?DAUP: Ay, but he will thrust me out of it, he vows, and marry.TRUE: How! that's a more portent. Can he endure no noise, and willventure on a wife?CLER: Yes: why thou art a stranger, it seems, to his best trick,yet. He has employed a fellow this half year all over England tohearken him out a dumb woman; be she of any form, or anyquality, so she be able to bear children: her silence is dowryenough, he says.TRUE: But I trust to God he has found none.CLER: No; but he has heard of one that is lodged in the next streetto him, who is exceedingly soft-spoken; thrifty of her speech; thatspends but six words a day. And her he's about now, and shall haveher.TRUE: Is't possible! who is his agent in the business?CLER: Marry a barber; one Cutbeard; an honest fellow, one thattells Dauphine all here.TRUE: Why you oppress me with wonder: a woman, and a barber, andlove no noise!CLER: Yes, faith. The fellow trims him silently, and has not theknack with his sheers or his fingers: and that continence in abarber he thinks so eminent a virtue, as it has made him chief ofhis counsel.TRUE: Is the barber to be seen, or the wench?CLER: Yes, that they are.TRUE: I prithee, Dauphine, let us go thither.DAUP: I have some business now: I cannot, i'faith.TRUE: You shall have no business shall make you neglect this, sir;we'll make her talk, believe it; or, if she will not, we can giveout at least so much as shall interrupt the treaty; we will breakit. Thou art bound in conscience, when he suspects thee withoutcause, to torment him.DAUP: Not I, by any means. I will give no suffrage to't. He shallnever have that plea against me, that I opposed the least phant'syof his. Let it lie upon my stars to be guilty, I'll be innocent.TRUE: Yes, and be poor, and beg; do, innocent: when some groom ofhis has got him an heir, or this barber, if he himself cannot.Innocent!—I prithee, Ned, where lies she? let him be innocentstill.CLER: Why, right over against the barber's; in the house wheresir John Daw lies.TRUE: You do not mean to confound me!CLER: Why?TRUE: Does he that would marry her know so much?CLER: I cannot tell.TRUE: 'Twere enough of imputation to her with him.CLER: Why?TRUE: The only talking sir in the town! Jack Daw!and he teach her not to speak!—God be wi' you.* I have some business too.CLER: Will you not go thither, then?TRUE: Not with the danger to meet Daw, for mine ears.CLER: Why? I thought you two had been upon very good terms.TRUE: Yes, of keeping distance.CLER: They say, he is a very good scholar.TRUE: Ay, and he says it first. A pox on him, a fellow thatpretends only to learning, buys titles, and nothing else ofbooks in him!CLER: The world reports him to be very learned.TRUE: I am sorry the world should so conspire to belie him.CLER: Good faith, I have heard very good things come from him.TRUE: You may; there's none so desperately ignorant to deny that:would they were his own! God be wi' you, gentleman.[EXIT HASTILY.]CLER: This is very abrupt!DAUP: Come, you are a strange open man, to tell every thing thus.CLER: Why, believe it, Dauphine, Truewit's a very honest fellow.DAUP: I think no other: but this frank nature of his is not forsecrets.CLER: Nay, then, you are mistaken, Dauphine: I know where he has beenwell trusted, and discharged the trust very truly, and heartily.DAUP: I contend not, Ned; but with the fewer a business is carried,it is ever the safer. Now we are alone, if you will go thither, Iam for you.CLER: When were you there?DAUP: Last night: and such a Decameron of sport fallen out! Boccacenever thought of the like. Daw does nothing but court her; and thewrong way. He would lie with her, and praises her modesty; desiresthat she would talk and be free, and commends her silence inverses: which he reads, and swears are the best that ever manmade. Then rails at his fortunes, stamps, and mutines, why he isnot made a counsellor, and call'd to affairs of state.CLER: I prithee let's go. I would fain partake this. Some water,boy.[EXIT PAGE.]DAUP: We are invited to dinner together, he and I, by one that camethither to him, sir La-Foole.CLER: O, that's a precious mannikin.DAUP: Do you know him?CLER: Ay, and he will know you too, if e'er he saw you but once,though you should meet him at church in the midst of prayers. He isone of the braveries, though he be none of the wits. He will salutea judge upon the bench, and a bishop in the pulpit, a lawyer whenhe is pleading at the bar, and a lady when she is dancing in amasque, and put her out. He does give plays, and suppers, andinvites his guests to them, aloud, out of his window, as theyride by in coaches. He has a lodging in the Strand for the purpose:or to watch when ladies are gone to the china-houses, or theExchange, that he may meet them by chance, and give them presents,some two or three hundred pounds' worth of toys, to be laugh'd at.He is never without a spare banquet, or sweet-meats in his chamber,for their women to alight at, and come up to for a bait.DAUP: Excellent! he was a fine youth last night; but now he is muchfiner! what is his Christian name? I have forgot.[RE-ENTER PAGE.]CLER: Sir Amorous La-Foole.PAGE: The gentleman is here below that owns that name.CLER: 'Heart, he's come to invite me to dinner, I hold my life.DAUP: Like enough: prithee, let's have him up.CLER: Boy, marshal him.PAGE: With a truncheon, sir?CLER: Away, I beseech you.[EXIT PAGE.]I'll make him tell us his pedegree, now; and what meat he has todinner; and who are his guests; and the whole course of hisfortunes: with a breath.[ENTER SIR AMOROUS LA-FOOLE.]LA-F: 'Save, dear sir Dauphine! honoured master Clerimont!CLER: Sir Amorous! you have very much honested my lodging with yourpresence.LA-F: Good faith, it is a fine lodging: almost as delicate a lodgingas mine.CLER: Not so, sir.LA-F: Excuse me, sir, if it were in the Strand, I assure you. I amcome, master Clerimont, to entreat you to wait upon two or threeladies, to dinner, to-day.CLER: How, sir! wait upon them? did you ever see me carry dishes?LA-F: No, sir, dispense with me; I meant, to bear them company.CLER: O, that I will, sir: the doubtfulness of your phrase, believeit, sir, would breed you a quarrel once an hour, with the terribleboys, if you should but keep them fellowship a day.LA-F: It should be extremely against my will, sir, if I contestedwith any man.CLER: I believe it, sir; where hold you your feast?LA-F: At Tom Otter's, sir.PAGE: Tom Otter? what's he?LA-F: Captain Otter, sir; he is a kind of gamester, but he has hadcommand both by sea and by land.PAGE: O, then he is animal amphibium?LA-F: Ay, sir: his wife was the rich china-woman, that the courtiersvisited so often; that gave the rare entertainment. She commandsall at home.CLER: Then she is captain Otter.LA-F: You say very well, sir: she is my kinswoman, a La-Foole by themother-side, and will invite any great ladies for my sake.PAGE: Not of the La-Fooles of Essex?LA-F: No, sir, the La-Fooles of London.CLER: Now, he's in. [ASIDE.]LA-F: They all come out of our house, the La-Fooles of the north, theLa-Fooles of the west, the La-Fooles of the east and south—we areas ancient a family as any is in Europe—but I myself am descendedlineally of the French La-Fooles—and, we do bear for our coatyellow, or or, checker'd azure, and gules, and some three or fourcolours more, which is a very noted coat, and has, sometimes, beensolemnly worn by divers nobility of our house—but let that go,antiquity is not respected now.—I had a brace of fat does sent me,gentlemen, and half a dozen of pheasants, a dozen or two ofgodwits, and some other fowl, which I would have eaten, while theyare good, and in good company:—there will be a great lady, or two,my lady Haughty, my lady Centaure, mistress Dol Mavis—and they comeo' purpose to see the silent gentlewoman, mistress Epicoene, thathonest sir John Daw has promis'd to bring thither—and then, mistressTrusty, my lady's woman, will be there too, and this honourableknight, sir Dauphine, with yourself, master Clerimont—and we'llbe very merry, and have fidlers, and dance.—I have been a mad wagin my time, and have spent some crowns since I was a page incourt, to my lord Lofty, and after, my lady's gentleman-usher, whogot me knighted in Ireland, since it pleased my elder brother todie.—I had as fair a gold jerkin on that day, as any worn inthe island voyage, or at Cadiz, none dispraised; and I came over init hither, shew'd myself to my friends in court, and after wentdown to my tenants in the country, and surveyed my lands, letnew leases, took their money, spent it in the eye o' the landhere, upon ladies:—and now I can take up at my pleasure.DAUP: Can you take up ladies, sir?CLER: O, let him breathe, he has not recover'd.DAUP: Would I were your half in that commodity!LA-F.: No, sir, excuse me: I meant money, which can take up anything. I have another guest or two, to invite, and say as much to,gentlemen. I will take my leave abruptly, in hope you will notfail—Your servant.[EXIT.]DAUP: We will not fail you, sir precious La-Foole; but she shall,that your ladies come to see, if I have credit afore sir Daw.CLER: Did you ever hear such a wind-sucker, as this?DAUP: Or, such a rook as the other! that will betray his mistressto be seen! Come, 'tis time we prevented it.CLER: Go.[EXEUNT.]
SCENE 2.1.A ROOM IN MOROSE'S HOUSE.ENTER MOROSE, WITH A TUBE IN HIS HAND, FOLLOWED BY MUTE.MOR: Cannot I, yet, find out a more compendious method, than bythis trunk, to save my servants the labour of speech, and mineears the discord of sounds? Let me see: all discourses but myown afflict me, they seem harsh, impertinent, and irksome. Isit not possible, that thou should'st answer me by signs, and Iapprehend thee, fellow? Speak not, though I question you. You havetaken the ring off from the street door, as I bade you? answer menot by speech, but by silence; unless it be otherwise[MUTE MAKES A LEG.]—very good. And you have fastened on a thick quilt, or flock-bed,on the outside of the door; that if they knock with theirdaggers, or with brick-bats, they can make no noise?—But withyour leg, your answer, unless it be otherwise,[MUTE MAKES A LEG.]—Very good. This is not only fit modesty in a servant, but goodstate and discretion in a master. And you have been with Cutbeardthe barber, to have him come to me?[MUTE MAKES A LEG.]—Good. And, he will come presently? Answer me not but with yourleg, unless it be otherwise: if it be otherwise, shake yourhead, or shrug.[MUTE MAKES A LEG.]—So! Your Italian and Spaniard are wise in these: and it is afrugal and comely gravity. How long will it be ere Cutbeard come?Stay, if an hour, hold up your whole hand, if half an hour, twofingers; if a quarter, one;[MUTE HOLDS UP A FINGER BENT.]—Good: half a quarter? 'tis well. And have you given him a key,to come in without knocking?[MUTE MAKES A LEG.]—good. And is the lock oil'd, and the hinges, to-day?[MUTE MAKES A LEG.]—good. And the quilting of the stairs no where worn out, andbare?[MUTE MAKES A LEG.]—Very good. I see, by much doctrine, and impulsion, it may beeffected: stand by. The Turk, in this divine discipline, isadmirable, exceeding all the potentates of the earth; still waitedon by mutes; and all his commands so executed; yea, even in thewar, as I have heard, and in his marches, most of his chargesand directions given by signs, and with silence: an exquisiteart! and I am heartily ashamed, and angry oftentimes, that theprinces of Christendom should suffer a barbarian to transcendthem in so high a point of felicity. I will practise it hereafter.[A HORN WINDED WITHIN.]—How now? oh! oh! what villain, what prodigy of mankind is that?look.[EXIT MUTE.]—[HORN AGAIN.]—Oh! cut his throat, cut his throat! what murderer, hell-hound,devil can this be?[RE-ENTER MUTE.]MUTE: It is a post from the court—MOR: Out rogue! and must thou blow thy horn too?MUTE: Alas, it is a post from the court, sir, that says, he mustspeak with you, pain of death—MOR: Pain of thy life, be silent![ENTER TRUEWIT WITH A POST-HORN, AND A HALTER IN HIS HAND.]TRUE: By your leave, sir;—I am a stranger here:—Is your namemaster Morose? is your name master Morose? Fishes! Pythagoreansall! This is strange. What say you, sir? nothing? Has Harpocratesbeen here with his club, among you? Well sir, I will believe youto be the man at this time: I will venture upon you, sir. Yourfriends at court commend them to you, sir—MOR: O men! O manners! was there ever such an impudence?TRUE: And are extremely solicitous for you, sir.MOR: Whose knave are you?TRUE: Mine own knave, and your compeer, sir.MOR: Fetch me my sword—TRUE: You shall taste the one half of my dagger, if you do, groom;and you, the other, if you stir, sir: Be patient, I charge you,in the king's name, and hear me without insurrection. They say, youare to marry; to marry! do you mark, sir?MOR: How then, rude companion!TRUE: Marry, your friends do wonder, sir, the Thames being so near,wherein you may drown, so handsomely; or London-bridge, at a lowfall, with a fine leap, to hurry you down the stream; or, such adelicate steeple, in the town as Bow, to vault from; or, a braverheight, as Paul's; Or, if you affected to do it nearer home, and ashorter way, an excellent garret-window into the street; or, abeam in the said garret, with this halter[HE SHEWS HIM A HALTER.]—which they have sent, and desire, that you would sooner commit yourgrave head to this knot, than to the wedlock noose; or, take alittle sublimate, and go out of the world like a rat; or a fly,as one said, with a straw in your arse: any way, rather than tofollow this goblin Matrimony. Alas, sir, do you ever think tofind a chaste wife in these times? now? when there are so manymasques, plays, Puritan preachings, mad folks, and other strangesights to be seen daily, private and public? If you had livedin king Ethelred's time, sir, or Edward the Confessor, you might,perhaps, have found one in some cold country hamlet, then, a dullfrosty wench, would have been contented with one man: now, theywill as soon be pleased with one leg, or one eye. I'll tell you,sir, the monstrous hazards you shall run with a wife.MOR: Good sir, have I ever cozen'd any friends of yours of theirland? bought their possessions? taken forfeit of their mortgage?begg'd a reversion from them? bastarded their issue? What have Idone, that may deserve this?TRUE: Nothing, sir, that I know, but your itch of marriage.MOR: Why? if I had made an assassinate upon your father, vitiatedyour mother, ravished your sisters—TRUE: I would kill you, sir, I would kill you, if you had.MOR: Why, you do more in this, sir: it were a vengeance centuple,for all facinorous acts that could be named, to do that you do.TRUE: Alas, sir, I am but a messenger: I but tell you, what youmust hear. It seems your friends are careful after your soul'shealth, sir, and would have you know the danger: (but you may doyour pleasure for all them, I persuade not, sir.) If, after you aremarried, your wife do run away with a vaulter, or the Frenchmanthat walks upon ropes, or him that dances the jig, or a fencerfor his skill at his weapon; why it is not their fault, they havedischarged their consciences; when you know what may happen. Nay,suffer valiantly, sir, for I must tell you all the perils thatyou are obnoxious to. If she be fair, young and vegetous, no sweet-meats ever drew more flies; all the yellow doublets and greatroses in the town will be there. If foul and crooked, she'll bewith them, and buy those doublets and roses, sir. If rich, andthat you marry her dowry, not her, she'll reign in your houseas imperious as a widow. If noble, all her kindred will be yourtyrants. If fruitful, as proud as May, and humorous as April; shemust have her doctors, her midwives, her nurses, her longings everyhour; though it be for the dearest morsel of man. If learned,there was never such a parrot; all your patrimony will be toolittle for the guests that must be invited to hear her speakLatin and Greek; and you must lie with her in those languagestoo, if you will please her. If precise, you must feast all thesilenced brethren, once in three days; salute the sisters;entertain the whole family, or wood of them; and hear long-windedexercises, singings and catechisings, which you are not given to,and yet must give for: to please the zealous matron your wife, whofor the holy cause, will cozen you, over and above. You begin tosweat, sir! but this is not half, i'faith: you may do yourpleasure, notwithstanding, as I said before: I come not to persuadeyou.[MUTE IS STEALING AWAY.]—Upon my faith, master servingman, if you do stir, I will beatyou.MOR: O, what is my sin! what is my sin!TRUE: Then, if you love your wife, or rather dote on her, sir: O, howshe'll torture you! and take pleasure in your torments! you shalllie with her but when she lists; she will not hurt her beauty, hercomplexion; or it must be for that jewel, or that pearl, when shedoes: every half hour's pleasure must be bought anew: and with thesame pain and charge you woo'd her at first. Then you mustkeep what servants she please; what company she will; that friendmust not visit you without her license; and him she loves most, shewill seem to hate eagerliest, to decline your jealousy; or, feignto be jealous of you first; and for that cause go live with hershe-friend, or cousin at the college, that can instruct her in allthe mysteries of writing letters, corrupting servants, tamingspies; where she must have that rich gown for such a great day; anew one for the next; a richer for the third; be served in silver;have the chamber fill'd with a succession of grooms, footmen,ushers, and other messengers; besides embroiderers, jewellers,tire-women, sempsters, feathermen, perfumers; whilst she feels nothow the land drops away; nor the acres melt; nor foresees thechange, when the mercer has your woods for her velvets; neverweighs what her pride costs, sir: so she may kiss a page, or asmooth chin, that has the despair of a beard; be a stateswoman,know all the news, what was done at Salisbury, what at the Bath,what at court, what in progress; or, so she may censure poets, andauthors, and styles, and compare them, Daniel with Spenser, Jonsonwith the t'other youth, and so forth: or be thought cunning incontroversies, or the very knots of divinity; and have often inher mouth the state of the question: and then skip to themathematics, and demonstration: and answer in religion to one,in state to another, in bawdry to a third.MOR: O, O!TRUE: All this is very true, sir. And then her going in disguise tothat conjurer, and this cunning woman: where the first question is,how soon you shall die? next, if her present servant love her?next, if she shall have a new servant? and how many? which of herfamily would make the best bawd, male, or female? what precedenceshe shall have by her next match? and sets down the answers, andbelieves them above the scriptures. Nay, perhaps she will study theart.MOR: Gentle sir, have you done? have you had your pleasure of me?I'll think of these things.TRUE: Yes sir: and then comes reeking home of vapour and sweat,with going a foot, and lies in a month of a new face, all oil andbirdlime; and rises in asses' milk, and is cleansed with a newfucus: God be wi' you, sir. One thing more, which I had almostforgot. This too, with whom you are to marry, may have made aconveyance of her virginity afore hand, as your wise widows do oftheir states, before they marry, in trust to some friend, sir: whocan tell? Or if she have not done it yet, she may do, upon thewedding-day, or the night before, and antedate you cuckold. Thelike has been heard of in nature. 'Tis no devised, impossiblething, sir. God be wi' you: I'll be bold to leave this rope withyou, sir, for a remembrance. Farewell, Mute![EXIT.]MOR: Come, have me to my chamber: but first shut the door.[TRUEWIT WINDS THE HORN WITHOUT.]O, shut the door, shut the door! is he come again?[ENTER CUTBEARD.]CUT: 'tis I, sir, your barber.MOR: O, Cutbeard, Cutbeard, Cutbeard! here has been a cut-throatwith me: help me in to my bed, and give me physic with thy counsel.[EXEUNT.]SCENE 2.2.A ROOM IN SIR JOHN DAW'S HOUSE.ENTER DAW, CLERIMONT, DAUPHINE, AND EPICOENE.DAW: Nay, an she will, let her refuse at her own charges: 'tisnothing to me, gentlemen: but she will not be invited to the likefeasts or guests every day.CLER: O, by no means, she may not refuse—to stay at home, if youlove your reputation: 'Slight, you are invited thither o' purposeto be seen, and laughed at by the lady of the college, and hershadows. This trumpeter hath proclaim'd you.[ASIDE TO EPICOENE.]DAUP: You shall not go; let him be laugh'd at in your stead, fornot bringing you: and put him to his extemporal faculty of foolingand talking loud, to satisfy the company.[ASIDE TO EPICOENE.]CLER: He will suspect us, talk aloud.—'Pray, mistress Epicoene,let us see your verses; we have sir John Daw's leave: do notconceal your servant's merit, and your own glories.EPI: They'll prove my servant's glories, if you have his leave sosoon.DAUP: His vain-glories, lady!DAW: Shew them, shew them, mistress, I dare own them.EPI: Judge you, what glories.DAW: Nay, I'll read them myself too: an author must recite hisown works. It is a madrigal of Modesty.Modest, and fair, for fair and good are nearNeighbours, howe'er.—DAUP: Very good.CLER: Ay, is't not?DAW: No noble virtue ever was alone,But two in one.DAUP: Excellent!CLER: That again, I pray, sir John.DAUP: It has something in't like rare wit and sense.CLER: Peace.DAW: No noble virtue ever was alone,But two in one.Then, when I praise sweet modesty, I praiseBright beauty's rays:And having praised both beauty and modesty,I have praised thee.DAUP: Admirable!CLER: How it chimes, and cries tink in the close, divinely!DAUP: Ay, 'tis Seneca.CLER: No, I think 'tis Plutarch.DAW: The dor on Plutarch, and Seneca! I hate it: they are mine ownimaginations, by that light. I wonder those fellows have suchcredit with gentlemen.CLER: They are very grave authors.DAW: Grave asses! mere essayists: a few loose sentences, and that'sall. A man would talk so, his whole age: I do utter as good thingsevery hour, if they were collected and observed, as either ofthem.DAUP: Indeed, sir John!CLER: He must needs; living among the wits and braveries too.DAUP: Ay, and being president of them, as he is.DAW: There's Aristotle, a mere common-place fellow; Plato, adiscourser; Thucydides and Livy, tedious and dry; Tacitus, anentire knot: sometimes worth the untying, very seldom.CLER: What do you think of the poets, sir John?DAW: Not worthy to be named for authors. Homer, an old tedious,prolix ass, talks of curriers, and chines of beef. Virgil ofdunging of land, and bees. Horace, of I know not what.CLER: I think so.DAW: And so Pindarus, Lycophron, Anacreon, Catullus, Seneca thetragedian, Lucan, Propertius, Tibullus, Martial, Juvenal,Ausonius, Statius, Politian, Valerius Flaccus, and the rest—CLER: What a sack full of their names he has got!DAUP: And how he pours them out! Politian with Valerius Flaccus!CLER: Was not the character right of him?DAUP: As could be made, i'faith.DAW: And Persius, a crabbed coxcomb, not to be endured.DAUP: Why, whom do you account for authors, sir John Daw?DAW: Syntagma juris civilis; Corpus juris civilis; Corpus juriscanonici; the king of Spain's bible—DAUP: Is the king of Spain's bible an author?CLER: Yes, and Syntagma.DAUP: What was that Syntagma, sir?DAW: A civil lawyer, a Spaniard.DAUP: Sure, Corpus was a Dutchman.CLER: Ay, both the Corpuses, I knew 'em: they were very corpulentauthors.DAW: And, then there's Vatablus, Pomponatius, Symancha: the otherare not to be received, within the thought of a scholar.DAUP: 'Fore God, you have a simple learned servant, lady,—in titles. [ASIDE.]CLER: I wonder that he is not called to the helm, and made acounsellor!DAUP: He is one extraordinary.CLER: Nay, but in ordinary: to say truth, the state wants such.DAUP: Why that will follow.CLER: I muse a mistress can be so silent to the dotes of such aservant.DAW: 'Tis her virtue, sir. I have written somewhat of her silencetoo.DAUP: In verse, sir John?CLER: What else?DAUP: Why? how can you justify your own being of a poet, that soslight all the old poets?DAW: Why? every man that writes in verse is not a poet; you have ofthe wits that write verses, and yet are no poets: they are poetsthat live by it, the poor fellows that live by it.DAUP: Why, would not you live by your verses, sir John?CLER: No, 'twere pity he should. A knight live by his verses? hedid not make them to that end, I hope.DAUP: And yet the noble Sidney lives by his, and the noble familynot ashamed.CLER: Ay, he profest himself; but sir John Daw has more caution:he'll not hinder his own rising in the state so much. Do youthink he will? Your verses, good sir John, and no poems.DAW: Silence in woman, is like speech in man,Deny't who can.DAUP: Not I, believe it: your reason, sir.DAW: Nor, is't a tale,That female vice should be a virtue male,Or masculine vice a female virtue be:You shall it seeProv'd with increase;I know to speak, and she to hold her peace.Do you conceive me, gentlemen?DAUP: No, faith; how mean you "with increase," sir John?DAW: Why, with increase is, when I court her for the common cause ofmankind; and she says nothing, but "consentire videtur": and intime is gravida.DAUP: Then this is a ballad of procreation?CLER: A madrigal of procreation; you mistake.EPI: 'Pray give me my verses again, servant.DAW: If you'll ask them aloud, you shall.[WALKS ASIDE WITH THE PAPERS.][ENTER TRUEWIT WITH HIS HORN.]CLER: See, here's Truewit again!—Where hast thou been, in thename of madness! thus accoutred with thy horn?TRUE: Where the sound of it might have pierced your sense withgladness, had you been in ear-reach of it. Dauphine, fall downand worship me: I have forbid the bans, lad: I have been with thyvirtuous uncle, and have broke the match.DAUP: You have not, I hope.TRUE: Yes faith; if thou shouldst hope otherwise, I should repent me:this horn got me entrance; kiss it. I had no other way to get in,but by faining to be a post; but when I got in once, I proved none,but rather the contrary, turn'd him into a post, or a stone, orwhat is stiffer, with thundering into him the incommodities of awife, and the miseries of marriage. If ever Gorgon were seen inthe shape of a woman, he hath seen her in my description: I haveput him off o' that scent for ever.—Why do you not applaud andadore me, sirs? why stand you mute? are you stupid? You are notworthy of the benefit.DAUP: Did not I tell you? Mischief!—CLER: I would you had placed this benefit somewhere else.TRUE: Why so?CLER: 'Slight, you have done the most inconsiderate, rash, weakthing, that ever man did to his friend.DAUP: Friend! if the most malicious enemy I have, had studied toinflict an injury upon me, it could not be a greater.TRUE: Wherein, for Gods-sake? Gentlemen, come to yourselves again.DAUP: But I presaged thus much afore to you.CLER: Would my lips had been solder'd when I spake on't. Slight,what moved you to be thus impertinent?TRUE: My masters, do not put on this strange face to pay mycourtesy; off with this visor. Have good turns done you, and thank'em this way!DAUP: 'Fore heav'n, you have undone me. That which I have plottedfor, and been maturing now these four months, you have blasted in aminute: Now I am lost, I may speak. This gentlewoman was lodgedhere by me o' purpose, and, to be put upon my uncle, hath profestthis obstinate silence for my sake; being my entire friend, andone that for the requital of such a fortune as to marry him,would have made me very ample conditions: where now, all my hopesare utterly miscarried by this unlucky accident.CLER: Thus 'tis when a man will be ignorantly officious, doservices, and not know his why; I wonder what courteous itchpossest you. You never did absurder part in your life, nor agreater trespass to friendship or humanity.DAUP: Faith, you may forgive it best: 'twas your cause principally.CLER: I know it, would it had not.[ENTER CUTBEARD.]DAUP: How now, Cutbeard! what news?CUT: The best, the happiest that ever was, sir. There has been amad gentleman with your uncle, this morning,[SEEING TRUEWIT.]—I think this be the gentleman—that has almost talk'd him outof his wits, with threatening him from marriage—DAUP: On, I prithee.CUT: And your uncle, sir, he thinks 'twas done by your procurement;therefore he will see the party you wot of presently: and if helike her, he says, and that she be so inclining to dumb as Ihave told him, he swears he will marry her, to-day, instantly,and not defer it a minute longer.DAUP: Excellent! beyond our expectation!TRUE: Beyond our expectation! By this light, I knew it would bethus.DAUP: Nay, sweet Truewit, forgive me.TRUE: No, I was ignorantly officious, impertinent: this was theabsurd, weak part.CLER: Wilt thou ascribe that to merit now, was mere fortune?TRUE: Fortune! mere providence. Fortune had not a finger in't. I sawit must necessarily in nature fall out so: my genius is never falseto me in these things. Shew me how it could be otherwise.DAUP: Nay, gentlemen, contend not, 'tis well now.TRUE: Alas, I let him go on with inconsiderate, and rash, and whathe pleas'd.CLER: Away, thou strange justifier of thyself, to be wiser than thouwert, by the event!TRUE: Event! by this light, thou shalt never persuade me, but Iforesaw it as well as the stars themselves.DAUP: Nay, gentlemen, 'tis well now. Do you two entertain sir JohnDaw with discourse, while I send her away with instructions.TRUE: I will be acquainted with her first, by your favour.CLER: Master True-wit, lady, a friend of ours.TRUE: I am sorry I have not known you sooner, lady, to celebratethis rare virtue of your silence.[EXEUNT DAUP., EPI., AND CUTBEARD.]CLER: Faith, an you had come sooner, you should have seen andheard her well celebrated in sir John Daw's madrigals.TRUE [ADVANCES TO DAW.]: Jack Daw, God save you! when saw youLa-Foole?DAW: Not since last night, master Truewit.TRUE: That's a miracle! I thought you two had been inseparable.DAW: He is gone to invite his guests.TRUE: 'Odso! 'tis true! What a false memory have I towards thatman! I am one: I met him even now, upon that he calls his delicatefine black horse, rid into a foam, with posting from place toplace, and person to person, to give them the cue—CLER: Lest they should forget?TRUE: Yes: There was never poor captain took more pains at amuster to shew men, than he, at this meal, to shew friends.DAW: It is his quarter-feast, sir.CLER: What! do you say so, sir John?TRUE: Nay, Jack Daw will not be out, at the best friends he has,to the talent of his wit: Where's his mistress, to hear and applaudhim? is she gone?DAW: Is mistress Epicoene gone?CLER: Gone afore, with sir Dauphine, I warrant, to the place.TRUE: Gone afore! that were a manifest injury; a disgrace and ahalf: to refuse him at such a festival-time as this, being abravery, and a wit too!CLER: Tut, he'll swallow it like cream: he's better read in Jurecivili, than to esteem any thing a disgrace, is offer'd him froma mistress.DAW: Nay, let her e'en go; she shall sit alone, and be dumb in herchamber a week together, for John Daw, I warrant her. Does sherefuse me?CLER: No, sir, do not take it so to heart; she does not refuse you,but a little neglects you. Good faith, Truewit, you were to blame,to put it into his head, that she does refuse him.TRUE: Sir, she does refuse him palpably, however you mince it. An Iwere as he, I would swear to speak ne'er a word to her to-dayfor't.DAW: By this light, no more I will not.TRUE: Nor to any body else, sir.DAW: Nay, I will not say so, gentlemen.CLER: It had been an excellent happy condition for the company, ifyou could have drawn him to it. [ASIDE.]DAW: I'll be very melancholY, i'faith.CLER: As a dog, if I were as you, sir John.TRUE: Or a snail, or a hog-louse: I would roll myself up for thisday, in troth, they should not unwind me.DAW: By this pick-tooth, so I will.CLER: 'Tis well done: He begins already to be angry with his teeth.DAW: Will you go, gentlemen?CLER: Nay, you must walk alone, if you be right melancholy, sirJohn.TRUE: Yes, sir, we'll dog you, we'll follow you afar off.[EXIT DAW.]CLER: Was there ever such a two yards of knighthood measured out bytime, to be sold to laughter?TRUE: A mere talking mole, hang him! no mushroom was ever so fresh.A fellow so utterly nothing, as he knows not what he would be.CLER: Let's follow him: but first, let's go to Dauphine, he'shovering about the house to hear what news.TRUE: Content.[EXEUNT.]