ACT III
SCENE I.-The Via Sacra (or Holy Street).Enter HORACE, CRISPINUS following.Hor. Umph! yes, I will begin an ode so; and it shall be toMecaenas.Oris.'Slid, yonder's Horace! they say he's an excellent poet:Mecaenas loves him. I'll fall into his acquaintance, if I can; Ithink he be composing as he goes in the street! ha! 'tis a goodhumour, if he be: I'll compose too.Hor.Swell me a bowl with lus'y wine,Till I may see the plump Lyoeus swimAbove the brim:I drink as I would write,In flowing measure fill'd with flame and sprite.Cris. Sweet Horace, Minerva and the Muses stand auspicious to thydesigns! How farest thou, sweet man? frolic? rich? gallant? ha!Hor. Not greatly gallant, Sir; like my fortunes, well: I am bold totake my leave, Sir; you'll nought else, Sir, would you?Cris. Troth, no, but I could wish thou didst know us, Horace; weare a scholar, I assure thee.Hor. A scholar, Sir! I shall be covetous of your fair knowledge.Cris. Gramercy, good Horace. Nay, we are new turn'd poet too, whichis more; and a satirist too, which is more than that: I write justin thy vein, I. I am for your odes, or your sermons, or any thingindeed; we are a gentleman besides; our name is Rufus LaberiusCrispinus; we are a pretty Stoic too.Hor. To the proportion of your beard, I think it, sir.Cris. By Phoebus, here's a most neat, fine street, is't not? Iprotest to thee, I am enamoured of this street now, more than ofhalf the streets of Rome again; 'tis so polite and terse! there'sthe front of a building now! I study architecture too: if ever Ishould build, I'd have a house just of that prospective.Hor. Doubtless, this gallant's tongue has a good turn, when hesleeps. [Aside.Cris. I do make verses, when I come in such a street as this: O,your city ladies, you shall have them sit in every shop like theMuses—offering you the Castalian dews, and the Thespian liquors, toas many as have but the sweet grace and audacity to sip of theirlips. Did you never hear any of my verses?Bor. No, sir;—-but I am in some fear I must now. [Aside.Cris. I'll tell thee some, if I can but recover them, I composedeven now of a dressing I saw a jeweller's wife wear, who indeed wasa jewel herself: I prefer that kind of tire now; what's thyopinion, Horace?Hor. With your silver bodkin, it does well, sir.Cris. I cannot tell; but it stirs me more than all yourcourt-curls, or your spangles, or your tricks: I affect notthese high gable-ends, these Tuscan tops, nor your coronets,nor your arches, nor your pyramids; give me a fine, sweet-littledelicate dressing with a bodkin, as you say; and a mushroomfor all your other ornatures!Hor. Is it not possible to make an escape from him? [Aside.Cris. I have remitted my verses all this while; I think I haveforgot them.Hor. Here's he could wish you had else. [Aside.Chris. Pray Jove I can entreat them of my memory!Hor. You put your memory to too much trouble, sir.Cris. No, sweet Horace, we must not have thee think so.Hor.I cry you mercy; then they are my earsThat must be tortured: well, you must have patience, ears.Cris. Pray thee, Horace, observe.Hor. Yes, sir; your satin sleeve begins to fret at the rug that isunderneath it, I do observe: and your ample velvet bases are notwithout evident stains of a hot disposition naturally.Cris. O—I'll dye them into another colour, at pleasure: How manyyards of velvet dost thou think they contain?Hor.'Heart! I have put him now in a fresh wayTo vex me more:—-faith, sir, your mercer's bookWill tell you With more patience than I can:—-For I am crost, and so's not that, I think.Cris.'Slight, these verses have lost me again!I shall not invite them to mind, now.Hor.Rack not your thoughts, good sir; rather defer itTo a new time; I'll meet you at your lodging,Or where you please: 'till then, Jove keep you, sir!Cris. Nay, gentle Horace, stay; I have it now.Hor.Yes, sir. Apollo, Hermes, Jupiter,Look down upon me. [Aside.Cris.Rich was thy hap; sweet dainty cap,There to be placed;Where thy smooth black, sleek white may smack,And both be graced.White is there usurp'd for her brow; her forehead: and then sleek,as the parallel to smooth, that went before. A kind of paranomasie,or agnomination: do you conceive, sir?Hor. Excellent. Troth, sir, I must be abrupt, and leave you.Cris. Why, what haste hast thou? prithee, stay a little; thou shaltnot go yet, by Phoebus.Hor. I shall not! what remedy? fie, how I sweat with suffering!Cris. And thenHor. Pray, sir, give me leave to wipe my face a little.Cris. Yes, do, good Horace.Hor.Thank you, sir.Death! I must crave his leave to p—, anon;.Or that I may go hence with half my teeth:I am in some such fear. This tyrannyIs strange, to take mine ears up by commission,(Whether I will or no,) and make them stallsTo his lewd solecisms, and worded trash.Happy thou, bold Bolanus, now I say;Whose freedom, and impatience of this fellow,Would, long ere this, have call'd him fool, and fool,And rank and tedious fool! and have flung jestsAs hard as stones, till thou hadst pelted himOut of the place; whilst my tame modestySuffers my wit be made a solemn ass,To bear his fopperies—- [Aside.Cris. Horace, thou art miserably affected to be gone, I see.But—prithee let's prove to enjoy thee a while. Thou hast nobusiness, I assure me. Whither is thy journey directed, ha?Hor. Sir, I am going to visit a friend that's sick.Cris A friend! what is he; do not I know him?Hor. No, sir, you do not know him; and 'tis not the worse for him.Cris. What's his name 1 where is he lodged?Hor. Where I shall be fearful to draw you out of your way, sir; agreat way hence; pray, sir, let's part.Cris. Nay, but where is't? I prithee say.Hor. On the far side of all Tyber yonder, by Caesar's gardens.Cris. O, that's my course directly; I am for you. Come, go; whystand'st thou?Hor. Yes, sir: marry, the plague is in that part of the city; I hadalmost forgot to tell you, sir.Cris. Foh! it is no matter, I fear no pestilence; I have notoffended Phoebus.Hor.I have, it seems, or else this heavy scourgeCould ne'er have lighted on me.Cris. Come along. Hor. I am to go down some half mile this way,sir, first, to speak with his physician; and from thence to hisapothecary, where I shall stay the mixing of divers drugs.Cris. Why, it's all one, I have nothing to do, and I love not to beidle; I'll bear thee company. How call'st thou the apothecary?Hor.O that I knew a name would fright him now!—-Sir, Rhadamanthus, Rhadamanthus, sir.There's one so called, is a just judge in hell,And doth inflict strange vengeance on all thoseThat here on earth torment poor patient spirits.Cris. He dwells at the Three Furies, by Janus's temple.Hor. Your pothecary does, sir.Cris. Heart, I owe him money for sweetmeats, and he has laid toarrest me, I hear: butHor: Sir, I have made a most solemn vow, I will never bail any man.Oris. Well then, I'll swear, and speak him fair, if the worst come.But his name is Minos, not Rhadamanthus, Horace.Hor. That may be, sir, I but guess'd at his name by his sign. Butyour Minos is a judge too, sir.Cris I protest to thee, Horace, (do but taste me once,) if I doknow myself, and mine own virtues truly, thou wilt not make thatesteem of Varius, or Virgil, or Tibullus, or any of 'em indeed, asnow in thy ignorance thou dost; which I am content to forgive: Iwould fain see which of these could pen more verses in a day, orwith more facility, than I; or that could court his mistress, kissher hand, make better sport with her fan or her dogHor. I cannot bail you yet, sir.Cris. Or that could move his body more gracefully, or dance better;you should see me, were it not in the streetHor. Nor yet.Cris. Why, I have been a reveller, and at my cloth of silver suitand my long stocking, in my time, and will be againHor. If you may be trusted, sir.Cris. And then, for my singing, Hermogenes himself envies me, thatis your only master of music you have in Rome.Hor. Is your mother living, sir?Cris. Ay! convert thy thoughts to somewhat else, I pray thee.Hor. You have much of the mother in you, sir: Your father is dead?Cris. Ay, I thank Jove, and my grandfather too, and all mykinsfolks, and well composed in their urns.Hor.The more their happiness, that rest in peace,Free from the abundant torture of thy tongue:Would I were with them too!Cris. What's that, Horace?Hor.I now remember me, sir, of a sad fateA cunning woman, one Sabella, sung,When in her urn she cast my destiny,I being but a child.Cris. What was it, I pray thee?Hor.She told me I should surely never perishBy famine, poison, or the enemy's sword;The hectic fever, cough, or pleurisy,Should never hurt me, nor the tardy gout:But in my time, I should be once surprisedBy a strong tedious talker, that should vexAnd almost bring me to consumption:Therefore, if I were wise, she warn'd me shunAll such long-winded monsters as my bane;For if I could but 'scape that one discourser,I might no doubt prove an old aged man.—By your leave, Sir. [Going.Cris. Tut, tut; abandon this idle humour, 'tis nothing butmelancholy. 'Fore Jove, now I think on't, I am to appear in courthere, to answer to one that has me in suit: sweet Horace, go withme, this is my hour; if I neglect it, the law proceeds against me.Thou art familiar with these things; prithee, if thou lov'st me,go.Hor.Now, let me die, sir, if I know your laws,Or have the power to stand still half so longIn their loud courts, as while a case is argued.Besides, you know, sir, where I am to go.And the necessity—-Cris. 'Tis true.Hor. I hope the hour of my release be come: he will, upon thisconsideration, discharge me, sure.Cris. Troth, I am doubtful what I may best do, whether to leavethee or my affairs, Horace.Hor. O Jupiter! me, sir, me, by any means; I beseech you, me, sir.Cris. No, faith, I'll venture those now; thou shalt see I lovethee—some, Horace.Hor. Nay, then I am desperate: I follow you, sir. 'Tis hardcontending with a man that overcomes thus.Cris. And how deals Mecaenas with thee? liberally, ha? is he openhanded? bountiful?Hor. He's still himself, sir.Cris. Troth, Horace, thou art exceeding happy in thy friends andacquaintance; they are all most choice spirits, and of the firstrank of Romans: I do not know that poet, I protest, has used hisfortune more prosperously than thou hast. If thou wouldst bring meknown to Mecaenas, I should second thy desert well; thou shouldstfind a good sure assistant of me, one that would speak all good ofthee in thy absence, and be content with the next place, notenvying thy reputation with thy patron. Let me not live, but Ithink thou and I, in a small time, should lift them all out offavour, both Virgil, Varius, and the best of them, and enjoy himwholly to ourselves.Hor.Gods, you do know it, I can hold no longer;This brize has prick'd my patience. Sir, your silknessClearly mistakes Mecaenas and his house,To think there breathes a spirit beneath his roof,Subject unto those poor affectionsOf undermining envy and detraction,Moods only proper to base grovelling minds.That place is not in Rome, I dare affirm,More pure or free from such low common evils.There's no man griev'd, that this is thought more rich,Or this more learned; each man hath his place,And to his merit his reward of grace,Which, with a mutual love, they all embrace.Cris. You report a wonder: 'tis scarce credible, this.Hor. l am no torturer to enforce you to believe it; but it is soCris. Why, this inflames me with a more ardent desire to be his,than before; but I doubt I shall find the entrance to hisfamiliarity somewhat more than difficult, Horace.Hor. Tut, you'll conquer him, as you have done me; there's nostanding out against you, sir, I see that: either your importunity,or the intimation of your good parts, orCris. Nay, I'll bribe his porter, and the grooms of his chamber;make his doors open to me that way first, and then I'll observe mytimes. Say he should extrude me his house to-day, shall I there-fore desist, or let fall my suit to-morrow? No; I'll attend him,follow him, meet him in the street, the highways, run by his coach,never leave him. What! man hath nothing given him in this lifewithout much labourHor.And impudence.Archer of heaven, Phoebus, take thy bow,And with a full-drawn shaft nail to the earthThis Python, that I may yet run hence and live:Or, brawny Hercules, do thou come down,And, tho' thou mak'st it up thy thirteenth labour,Rescue me from this hydra of discourse here.[Enter FUSCUS ARISTIUS.Ari. Horace, well met.Hor.O welcome, my reliever;Aristius, as thou lov'st me, ransom me.Ari. What ail'st thou, man?Hor.'Death, I am seized on hereBy a land remora; I cannot stir,Nor move, but as he pleases.Cris. Wilt thou go, Horace?Hor.Heart! he cleaves to me like Alcides' shirt,Tearing my flesh and sinews: O, I've been vex'dAnd tortured with him beyond forty fevers.For Jove's sake, find some means to take me from him.Ari. Yes, I will;—but I'll go first and tell Mecaenas. [Aside.Cris. Come, shall we go?Ari. The jest will make his eyes run, i'faith. [Aside.Hor. Nay, Aristius!Ari. Farewell, Horace. [Going.Hor. 'Death! will he leave me? Fuscus Aristius! do you hear? Godsof Rome! You said you had somewhat to say to me in private.Ari. Ay, but I see you are now employed with that gentleman; 'twereoffence to trouble you; I'll take some fitter opportunity:farewell. [Exit.Hor.Mischief and torment! O my soul and heart,How are you cramp'd with anguish! Death itselfBrings not the like convulsions, O, this day!That ever I should view thy tedious face.—-Cris. Horace, what passion, what humour is this?Hor.Away, good prodigy, afflict me not.A friend, and mock me thus! Never was manSo left under the axe.—-[Enter Minos with two Lictors.How now?Min. That's he in the embroidered hat, there, with the ash-colour'dfeather: his name is Laberius Crispinus.Lict. Laberius Crispinus, I arrest you in the emperor's name.Cris. Me, sir! do you arrest me?Lice. Ay, sir, at the suit of master Minos the apothecary.[Exit hastily.Hor. Thanks, great Apollo, I will not slip thy favour offered me inmy escape, for my fortunes.Cris. Master Minos! I know no masterMinos. Where's Horace? Horace! Horace!Min. Sir, do not you know me?Cris. O yes, I know you, master Minos; cry you mercy. But Horace?God's me, is he gone?Min. Ay, and so would you too, if you knew how.—Officer, look tohim.Cris. Do you hear, master Minos? pray let us be used like a man ofour own fashion. By Janus and Jupiter, I meant to have paid younext week every drachm. Seek not to eclipse my reputation thusvulgarly.Min. Sir, your oaths cannot serve you; you know I have forborne youlong.Cris. I am conscious of it, sir. Nay, I beseech you, gentlemen, donot exhale me thus, remember 'tis but for sweetmeats—Lict. Sweet meat must have sour sauce, sir. Come along.Cris. Sweet master Minos, I am forfeited to eternal disgrace, ifyou do not commiserate. Good officer, be not so officious.Enter TUCCA and Pyrgi.Tuc. Why, how now, my good brace of bloodhounds, whither do youdrag the gentleman? You mongrels, you curs, you ban-dogs! we arecaptain Tucca that talk to you, you inhuman pilchers.Min. Sir, he is their prisoner.Tuc. Their pestilence! What are you, sir?Min. A citizen of Rome, sir.Tuc. Then you are not far distant from a fool, sir.Min. A pothecary, sir.Tuc. I knew thou wast not a physician: foh! out of my nostrils,thou stink'st of lotium and the syringe; away, quack-salver!—Follower, my sword.[Aside.I Pyr. Here, noble leader; you'll do no harm with it, I'll trustyou.Tuc. Do you hear, you goodman, slave? Hook, ram, rogue, catchpole,loose the gentleman, or by my velvet arms—[Strikes up his heels, and seizes his sword.Lict. What will you do, sir?Tuc. Kiss thy hand, my honourable active varlet, and embrace theethus.1 Pyr. O patient metamorphosis!Tuc. My sword, my tall rascal.Lict. Nay, soft, sir; some wiser than some.Tuc. What! and a wit too? By Pluto, thou must be cherish'd, slave;here's three drachms for thee; hold.2 Pyr. There's half his lendings gone.Tuc. Give me.Lict. No, sir, your first word shall stand; I'll hold all.Tuc. Nay, but rogue—Lict. You would make a rescue of our prisoner, sir, you.Tuc. I a rescue! A way, inhuman varlet. Come, come, I never relishabove one jest at most; do not disgust me, Sirrah; do not, rogue! Itell thee, rogue, do not.Lict. How, sir! rogue?Tuc. Ay; why, thou art not angry, rascal, art thou?Lict. I cannot tell, sir; I am little better upon these terms.Tuc. Ha, gods and fiends! why, dost hear, rogue, thou? give me thyhand; I say unto thee, thy hand, rogue. What, dost not thou knowme? not me, rogue? not captain Tucca, rogue?Min. Come, pray surrender the gentleman his sword, officer; we'llhave no fighting here.Tuc. What's thy name?Min. Minos, an't please you.Tuc. Minos! Come hither, Minos; thou art a wise fellow, it seems;let me talk with thee.Cris. Was ever wretch so wretched as unfortunate I!Tuc. Thou art one of the centumviri, old boy, art not?Min. No indeed, master captain.Tuc. Go to, thou shalt be then; I'll have thee one.Minos. Take my sword from these rascals, dost thou see! go, do it;I cannot attempt with patience. What does this gentleman owe thee,little Minos?Min. Fourscore sesterties, sir.Tuc. What, no more! Come, thou shalt release him.Minos: what, I'll be his bail, thou shalt take my word, old boy,and cashier these furies: thou shalt do't, I say, thou shalt,little Minos, thou shalt.Cris. Yes; and as I am a gentleman and a reveller, I'll make apiece of poetry, and absolve all, within these five days.Tuc. Come, Minos is not to learn how to use a gentleman of quality,I know.—My sword: If he pay thee not, I will, and I must, old boy.Thou shalt be my pothecary too. Hast good eringos, Minos.Min. The best in Rome, sir.Tuc. Go to, then—Vermin, know the house.1 Pyr. I warrant you, colonel.Tuc. For this gentleman, Minos—Min. I'll take your word, captain.Tuc. Thou hast it. My sword.Min. Yes, sir: But you must discharge the arrest, master Crispinus.Tuc. How, Minos! Look in the gentleman's face, and but read hissilence. Pay, pay; 'tis honour, Minos.Cris. By Jove, sweet captain, you do most infinitely endear andoblige me to you.Tuc. Tut, I cannot compliment, by Mars; but, Jupiter love me, as Ilove good words and good clothes, and there's an end. Thou shaltgive my boy that girdle and hangers, when thou hast worn them alittle more.Cris. O Jupiter! captain, he shall have them now, presently:—Please you to be acceptive, young gentleman.1 Pyr. Yes, sir, fear not; I shall accept; I have a pretty foolishhumour of taking, if you knew all. [Aside.Tuc. Not now, you shall not take, boy.Cris. By my truth and earnest, but he shall, captain, by yourleave.Tuc. Nay, an he swear by his truth and earnest, take it, boy: donot make a gentleman forsworn.Lict. Well, sir, there's your sword; but thank master Minos; youhad not carried it as you do else.Tuc. Minos is just, and you are knaves, andLict. What say you, sir?Tuc. Pass on, my good scoundrel, pass on, I honour thee: [ExeuntLictors.] But that I hate to have action with such base rogues asthese, you should have seen me unrip their noses now, and have sentthem to the next barber's to stitching; for do you see—-I am a manof humour, and I do love the varlets, the honest varlets, they havewit and valour, and are indeed good profitable,—errant rogues, asany live in an empire. Dost thou hear, poetaster? [To Crispinus.]Second me. Stand up, Minos, close, gather, yet, so! Sir, (thoushalt have a quarter-share, be resolute) you shall, at my request,take Minos by the hand here, little Minos, I will have it so; allfriends, and a health; be not inexorable. And thou shalt impart thewine, old boy, thou shalt do it, little Minos, thou shalt; make uspay it in our physic. What! we must live, and honour the godssometimes; now Bacchus, now Comus, now Priapus; every god a little.[Histrio passes by.] What's he that stalks by there, boy, Pyrgus?You were best let him pass, Sirrah; do, ferret, let him pass, do2 Pyr. 'Tis a player, sir.Tuc. A player! call him, call the lousy slave hither; what, will hesail by and not once strike, or vail to a man of war? ha!-Do youhear, you player, rogue, stalker, come back here![Enter Histrio.No respect to men of worship, you slave! what, you are proud, yourascal, are you proud, ha? you grow rich, do you, and purchase,you twopenny tear-mouth? you have FORTUNE, and the good year onyour side, you stinkard, you have, you have!Hist. Nay, 'sweet captain, be confined to some reason; I protest Isaw you not, sir.Tuc. You did not? where was your sight, OEdipus? you walk withhare's eyes, do you? I'll have them glazed, rogue; an you say theword, they shall be glazed for you: come we must have you turnfiddler again, slave, get a base viol at your back, and march in atawny coat, with one sleeve, to Goose-fair; then you'll know us,you'll see us then, you will, gulch, you will. Then, Will't pleaseyour worship to have any music, captain?Hist. Nay, good captain.Tuc. What, do you laugh, Howleglas! death, you perstemptuousvarlet, I am none of your fellows; I have commanded a hundred andfifty such rogues, I,2 Pyr. Ay, and most of that hundred and fifty have been leaders ofa legion. [Aside.Hist. If I have exhibited wrong, I'll tender satisfaction, captain.Tuc. Say'st thou so, honest vermin! Give me thy hand; thou shaltmake us a supper one of these nights.Hist. When you please, by Jove, captain, most willingly. us. Dostthou swear! To-morrow then; say and hold, slave. There are some ofyou players honest gentlemen-like scoundrels, and suspected to havesome wit, as well as your poets, both at drinking and breaking ofjests, and are companions for gallants. A man may skelder ye, nowand then, of half a dozen shillings, or so. Dost thou not know thatPantalabus there?Hist. No, I assure you, captain.Tuc. Go; and be acquainted with him then; he is a gentleman, parcelpoet, you slave; his father was a man of worship, I tell thee. Go,he pens high, lofty, in a new stalking strain, bigger than half therhymers in the town again; he was born to fill thy mouth,Minotaurus, he was, he will teach thee to tear and rand. Rascal, tohim, cherish his muse, go; thou hast forty-forty shillings, I mean,stinkard; give him in earnest, do, he shall write for thee, slave!If he pen for thee once, thou shalt not need to travel with thypumps full of gravel any more, after a blind jade and a hamper, andstalk upon boards and barrel heads to an old crack'd trumpet.Hist. Troth, I think I have not so much about me, captain.Tuc. It's no matter; give him what thou hast, stiff-toe, I'll givemy word for the rest; though it lack a shilling or two, it skillsnot: go, thou art an honest shifter; I'll have the statute repeal'dfor thee.—Minos, I must tell thee, Minos, thou hast dejected yongentleman's spirit exceedingly; dost observe, dost note, littleMinos?Min. Yes, sir.Tuc. Go to then, raise, recover, do; suffer him not to droop inprospect of a player, a rogue, a stager: put twenty into hishand—twenty sesterces I mean,—and let nobody see; go, do it—thework shall commend itself; ye Minos, I'll pay.Min. Yes, forsooth, captain.2 Pyr. Do not we serve a notable shark? [Aside.Tuc. And what new matters have you now afoot, sirrah, ha? I wouldfain come with my cockatrice one day, and see a play, if I knewwhen there were a good bawdy one; but they say you have nothing butHUMOURS, REVELS, and SATIRES, that gird and f—t at the time, youslave.Hist. No, I assure you, captain, not we. They are on the other sideof Tyber: we have as much ribaldry in our plays as can be, as youwould wish, captain: all the sinners in the suburbs come andapplaud our action daily.Tuc. I hear you'll bring me o' the stage there; you'll play me,they say; I shall be presented by a sort of copper-laced scoundrelsof you: life of Pluto! an you stage me, stinkard, your mansionsshall sweat for't, your tabernacles, varlets, your Globes, and yourTriumphs.Hist. Not we, by Phoebus, captain; do not do us imputation withoutdesert.Tuc. I will not, my good twopenny rascal; reach me thy neuf. Dosthear? what wilt thou give me a week for my brace of beagles here,my little point-trussers? you shall have them act among ye.—ISirrah, you, pronounce.—Thou shalt hear him speak in King Darius'doleful strain.1 Pyr.O doleful days! O direful deadly dump!O wicked world, and worldly wickedness!How can I hold my fist from crying, thump,In rue of this right rascal wretchedness!Tuc. In an amorous vein now, sirrah: peace!1 Pyr.O, she is wilder, and more hard, withal,Than beast, or bird, or tree, or stony wall.Yet might she love me, to uprear her state:Ay, but perhaps she hopes some nobler mate.Yet might she love me, to content her fire:Ay, but her reason masters her desire.Yet might she love me as her beauty's thrall:Ay, but I fear she cannot love at all.Tuc. Now, the horrible, fierce soldier, you, sirrah.2 Pyr.What! will I brave thee? ay, and beard thee too;A Roman spirit scorns to bear a brainSo full of base pusillanimity.Hist. Excellent!Tuc. Nay, thou shalt see that shall ravish thee anon; prick upthine ears, stinkard.—The ghost, boys!1 Pyr. Vindicate!2 Pyr. Timoria!1 Pyr. Vindicta!2 Pyr. Timoria!1 Pyr. Veni!2 Pyr. Veni!Tuc. Now thunder, sirrah, you, the rumbling player.2 Pyr. Ay, but somebody must cry, Murder! then, in a small voice.Tuc. Your fellow-sharer there shall do't:Cry, sirrah, cry.1 Pyr. Murder, murder!2 Pyr. Who calls out murder? lady, was it you?Hist. O, admirable good, I protest.Tuc. Sirrah, boy, brace your drum a little straiter, and do thet'other fellow there, he in the—what sha' call him—and yet staytoo.2 Pyr.Nay, an thou dalliest, then I am thy foe,And fear shall force what friendship cannot win;Thy death shall bury what thy life conceals.Villain! thou diest for more respecting her—-1 Pyr. O stay, my lord.2 Pyr.Than me:Yet speak the truth, and I will guerdon thee;But if thou dally once again, thou diest.Tuc. Enough of this, boy.2 Pyr.Why, then lament therefore: d—n'd be thy gutsUnto king Pluto's Hell, and princely Erebus;For sparrows must have food—-Hist. Pray, sweet captain, let one of them do a little of a lady.Tuc. O! he will make thee eternally enamour'd of him, there: do,sirrah, do; 'twill allay your fellow's fury a little.1 Pyr.Master, mock on; the scorn thou givest me,Pray Jove some lady may return on thee.2 Pyr. Now you shall see me do the Moor: master, lend me your scarfa little.Tuc. Here, 'tis at thy service, boy.2 Pyr. You, master Minos, hark hither a little[Exit with Minos, to make himself ready.Tuc. How dost like him? art not rapt, art not tickled now? dost notapplaud, rascal? dost not applaud?Hist. Yes: what will you ask for them a week, captain?Tuc. No, you mangonising slave, I will not part from them; you'llsell them for enghles, you: let's have good cheer tomorrow nightat supper, stalker, and then we'll talk; good capon and plover, doyou hear, sirrah? and do not bring your eating player with youthere; I cannot away with him: he will eat a leg of mutton while Iam in my porridge, the lean Polyphagus, his belly is likeBarathrum; he looks like a midwife in man's apparel, the slave: northe villanous out-of-tune fiddler, AEnobarbus, bring not him. Whathast thou there? six and thirty, ha?Hist. No, here's all I have, captain, some five and twenty: pray,sir, will you present and accommodate it unto the gentleman? formine own part, I am a mere stranger to his humour; besides, I havesome business invites me hence, with master Asinius Lupus, thetribune.Tuc. Well, go thy ways, pursue thy projects, let me alone withthis design; my Poetaster shall make thee a play, and thou shalt bea man of good parts in it. But stay, let me see; do not bring yourAEsop, your politician, unless you can ram up his mouth withcloves; the slave smells ranker than some sixteen dunghills, and isseventeen times more rotten. Marry, you may bring Frisker, my zany;he's a good skipping swaggerer; and your fat fool there, my mango,bring him too; but let him not beg rapiers nor scarfs, in hisover-familiar playing face, nor roar out his barren bold jests witha tormenting laughter, between drunk and dry. Do you hear,stiff-toe? give him warning, admonition, to forsake his saucyglavering grace, and his goggle eye; it does not become him,sirrah: tell him so. I have stood up and defended you, I, togentlemen, when you have been said to prey upon puisnes, and honestcitizens, for socks or buskins; or when they have call'd youusurers or brokers, or said you were able to help to a piece offlesh—I have sworn, I did not think so, nor that you were thecommon retreats for punks decayed in their practice; I cannotbelieve it of you.Hist. Thank you, captain. Jupiter and the rest of the gods confineyour modern delights without disgust.Tuc. Stay, thou shalt see the Moor ere thou goest.[Enter DEMETRIUS at a distance.What's he with the half arms there, that salutes us out of hiscloak, like a motion, ha?Hist. O, sir, his doublet's a little decayed; he is otherwise avery simple honest fellow, sir, one Demetrius, a dresser of playsabout the town here; we have hired him to abuse Horace, and bringhim in, in a play, with all his gallants, as Tibullus, Mecaenas,Cornelius Gallus, and the rest.Tuc. And why so, stinkard?Hist. O, it will get us a huge deal of money, captain, and we haveneed on't; for this winter has made us all poorer than so manystarved snakes: nobody comes at us, not a gentleman, nor a—Tuc. But you know nothing by him, do you, to make a play of?Hist. Faith, not much, captain; but our author will devise thatthat shall serve in some sort.Tuc. Why, my Parnassus here shall help him, if thou wilt. Can thyauthor do it impudently enough?Hist. O, I warrant you, captain, and spitefully enough too; he hasone of tho most overflowing rank wits in Rome; he will slander anyman that breathes, if he disgust him.Tuc. I'll know the poor, egregious, nitty rascal; an he have thesecommendable qualities, I'll cherish him—stay, here comes theTartar—I'll make a gathering for him, I, a purse, and put the poorslave in fresh rags; tell him so to comfort him.—[Demetrius comes forward.Be-enter Minos, with 2 Pyrgus on his shoulders, and stalksbackward and forward, as the boy acts.Well said, boy.2 Pyr.Where art thou, boy? where is Calipolis?Fight earthquakes in the entrails of the earth,And eastern whirlwinds in the hellish shades;Some foul contagion of the infected heavensBlast all the trees, and in their cursed topsThe dismal night raven and tragic owlBreed and become forerunners of my fall!Tuc. Well, now fare thee well, my honest penny-biter: commend me toseven shares and a half, and remember to-morrow.—If you lack aservice, you shall play in my name, rascals; but you shall buy yourown cloth, and I'll have two shares for my countenance. Let thyauthor stay with me.[Exit Histrio.Dem. Yes, sir.Tuc. 'Twas well done, little Minos, thou didst stalk well: forgiveme that I said thou stunk'st; Minos; 'twas the savour of a poet Imet sweating in the street, hangs yet in my nostrils.Cris. Who, Horace?Tuc. Ay, he; dost thou know him?Cris. O, he forsook me most barbarously, I protest.Tuc. Hang him, fusty satyr, he smells all goat; he carries a ramunder his arm-holes, the slave: I am the worse when I see him.—Did not Minos impart? [Aside to Crispinus.Cris. Yes, here are twenty drachms he did convey.Tuc. Well said, keep them, we'll share anon; come, little Minos.Cris. Faith, captain, I'll be bold to shew you a mistress of mine,a jeweller's wife, a gallant, as we go along.Tuc. There spoke my genius. Minos, some of thy eringos, littleMinos; send. Come hither, Parnassus, I must have thee familiar withmy little locust here; 'tis a good vermin, they say.—[Horace and Trebatius pass over the stage.]See, here's Horace, and old Trebatius, the great lawyer, in hiscompany; let's avoid him now, he is too well seconded.[Exeunt.
ACT IVSCENE I.-A Room in ALBIUS'S House.enter CHLOE, CYTHERIS, and Attendants.Chloe. But, sweet lady, say; am I well enough attired for thecourt, in sadness?Cyth. Well enough! excellent well, sweet mistress Chloe; thisstrait-bodied city attire, I can tell you, will stir a courtier'sblood, more than the finest loose sacks the ladies use to be putin; and then you are as well jewell'd as any of them; your ruffand linen about you is much more pure than theirs; and for yourbeauty, I can tell you, there's many of them would defy thepainter, if they could change with you. Marry, the worst is, youmust look to be envied, and endure a few court-frumps for it.Chloe. O Jove, madam, I shall buy them too cheap!—Give me my muff,and my dog there.-And will the ladies be any thing familiar withme, think you?Cyth. O Juno! why you shall see them flock about you with theirpuff-wings, and ask you where you bought your lawn, and what youpaid for it? who starches you? and entreat you to help 'em to somepure laundresses out of the city.Chloe. O Cupid!—Give me my fan, and my mask too.—And will thelords, and the poets there, use one well too, lady?Cyth. Doubt not of that; you shall have kisses from them, gopit-pat, pit-pat, pit-pat, upon your lips, as thick as stones outof slings at the assault of a city. And then your ears will be sofurr'd with the breath of their compliments, that you cannot catchcold of your head, if you would, in three winters after.Chloe. Thank you, sweet lady. O heaven! and how must one behaveherself amongst 'em? You know all.Cyth. Faith, impudently enough, mistress Chloe, and well enough.Carry not too much under thought betwixt yourself and them; noryour city-mannerly word, forsooth, use it not too often in anycase; but plain, Ay, madam, and no, madam: nor never say, yourlordship, nor your honour; but, you, and you, my lord, and my lady:the other they count too simple and minsitive. And though theydesire to kiss heaven with their titles, yet they will count themfools that give them too humbly.Chloe. O intolerable, Jupiter! by my troth, lady, I would not for aworld but you had lain in my house; and, i'faith, you shall not paya farthing for your board, nor your chambers.Cyth. O, sweet mistress Chloe! Chloe. I'faith you shall not, lady;nay, good lady, do not offer it.[Enter GALLUS and TIBULLUS.Gal. Come, where be these ladies? By your leave, bright stars, thisgentleman and I are come to man you to court; where your late kindentertainment is now to be requited with a heavenly banquet.Cyth. A heavenly banquet; Gallus!Gal. No less, my dear Cytheris.Tib. That were not strange, lady, if the epithet were only givenfor the company invited thither; your self, and this fairgentle-woman.Chloe. Are we invited to court, sir?Tib. You are, lady, by the great princess Julia; who longs to greetyou with any favours that may worthily make you an often courtier.Chloe. In sincerity, I thank her, sir. You have a coach, have younot?Tib. The princess hath sent her own, lady.Chloe. O Venus! that's well: I do long to ride in a coach mostvehemently.Cyth. But, sweet Gallus, pray you resolve me why you give thatheavenly praise to this earthly banquet?Gal. Because, Cytheris, it must be celebrated by the heavenlypowers: all the gods and goddesses will be there; to two of whichyou two must be exalted.Chloe. A pretty fiction, in truth.Cyth. A fiction, indeed, Chloe, and fit for the fit of a poet.Gal. Why, Cytheris, may not poets (from whose divine spirits allthe honours of the gods have been deduced) entreat so much honourof the gods, to have their divine presence at a poetical banquet?Cyth. Suppose that no fiction; yet, where are your habilities tomake us two goddesses at your feast?Gal. Who knows not, Cytheris, that the sacred breath of a true poetcan blow any virtuous humanity up to deity?Tib. To tell you the female truth, which is the simple truth,ladies; and to shew that poets, in spite of the world, are able todeify themselves; at this banquet, to which you are invited, weintend to assume the figures of the gods; and to give our severalloves the forms of goddesses. Ovid will be Jupiter; the princessJulia, Juno; Gallus here, Apollo; you, Cytheris, Pallas; I will beBacchus; and my love Plautia, Ceres: and to install you and yourhusband, fair Chloe, in honours equal with ours, you shall be agoddess, and your husband a god.Chloe. A god!—O my gods!Tib. A god, but a lame god, lady; for he shall be Vulcan, and youVenus: and this will make our banquet no less than heavenly.Chloe. In sincerity, it will be sugared. Good Jove, what a prettyfoolish thing it is to be a poet! but, hark you, sweet Cytheris,could they not possibly leave out my husband? methinks a body'shusband does not so well at court; a body's friend, or so—but,husband! 'tis like your clog to your marmoset, for all the world,and the heavens.Cyth. Tut, never fear, Chloe! your husband will be left without inthe lobby, or the great chamber, when you shall be put in, i'thecloset, by this lord, and by that lady.Chloe. Nay, then I am certified; he shall go.[Enter HORACE.Gal. Horace! welcome.Hor. Gentlemen, hear you the news?Tib. What news, my Quintus!Hor.Our melancholic friend, Propertius,Hath closed himself up in his Cynthia's tomb;And will by no entreaties be drawn thence.[Enter Albius, introducing CRISPINUS and DEMETRIUS,followed by Tucca.Alb. Nay, good Master Crispinus, pray you bring near the gentleman.[GoingHor. Crispinus! Hide me, good Gallus; Tibullus, shelter me.Cris. Make your approach, sweet captain.Tib. What means this, Horace?Hor. I am surprised again; farewell.Gal. Stay, Horace.[Exit hastily.Tib 'Slight, I hold my lifeThis same is he met him in Holy-street.Hor. What, and be tired on by yond' vulture! No: Phoebus defend me!Gal. Troth, 'tis like enough.—This act of Propertius relishethvery strange with me.Tuc. By thy leave, my neat scoundrel: what, is this the mad boy youtalk'd on?Cris. Ay, this is master Albius, captain.Tuc. Give me thy hand, Agamemnon; we hear abroad thou art theHector of citizens: What sayest thou? are we welcome to thee, nobleNeoptolemus?Alb. Welcome, captain, by Jove and all the gods in the Capitol—Tuc. No more, we conceive thee. Which of these is thy wedlock,Menelaus? thy Helen, thy Lucrece? that we may do her honour, madboy.Cris. She in the little fine dressing, sir, is my mistress.Alb. For fault of a better, sir.Tuc. A better! profane rascal: I cry thee mercy, my good scroyle,was't thou?Alb. No harm, captain.Tuc. She is a Venus, a Vesta, a Melpomene: come hither, Penelope;what's thy name, Iris?Chloe. My name is Chloe, sir; I am a gentlewoman.Tuc. Thou art in merit to be an empress, Chloe, for an eye and alip; thou hast an emperor's nose: kiss me again: 'tis a virtuouspunk; so! Before Jove, the gods were a sort of goslings, when theysuffered so sweet a breath to perfume the bed of a stinkard: thouhadst ill fortune, Thisbe; the Fates were infatuate, they were,punk, they were.Chloe. That's sure, sir: let me crave your name, I pray you, sir.Tuc. I am known by the name of Captain Tucca, punk; the nobleRoman, punk: a gentleman, and a commander, punk.[Walks aside.Chloe. In good time: a gentleman, and a commander! that's as goodas a poet, methinks.Cris. A pretty instrument! It's my cousin Cytheris' viol this,is it not?Cyth. Nay, play, cousin; it wants but such a voice and hand tograce it, as yours is.Cris. Alas, cousin, you are merrily inspired.Cyth. Pray you play, if you love me.Cris. Yes, cousin; you know I do not hate you.Tib. A most subtile wench! how she hath baited him with a violyonder, for a song!Cris. Cousin, 'pray you call mistress Chloe! she shall hear anessay of my poetry.Tuc. I'll call her.—Come hither, cockatrice: here's one will setthee up, my sweet punk, set thee up.Chloe. Are you a poet so soon, sir?CRlSPINUS plays and sings.Love is blind, and a wanton;In the whole world, there is scant one——Such another:No, not his mother.He hath pluck'd her doves and sparrows,To feather his sharp arrows,And alone prevaileth,While sick Venus waileth.But if Cypris once recoverThe wag; it shall behove herTo look better to him:Or she will undo him.Alb. Wife, mum.Alb. O, most odoriferous music!Tuc. Aha, stinkard! Another Orpheus, you slave, another Orpheus! anArion riding on the back of a dolphin, rascal!Gal. Have you a copy of this ditty, sir?Cris. Master Albius has.Alb. Ay, but in truth they are my Wife's verses; I must not shewthem.Tuc. Shew them, bankrupt, shew them; they have salt in them, andwill brook the air, stinkard.Gal. How! To his bright mistress Canidia!Cris. Ay, sir, that's but a borrowed name; as Ovid's Corinna, orPropertius his Cynthia, or your Nemesis, or Delia, Tibullus.Gal. It's the name of Horace his witch, as I remember.Tib. Why, the ditty's all borrowed; 'tis Horace's: hang him,plagiary!Tut. How! he borrow of Horace? he shall pawn himself to tenbrokers first. Do you hear, Poetasters? I know you to be men ofworship—He shall write with Horace, for a talent! and let Mecaenasand his whole college of critics take his part: thou shalt do't,young Phoebus; thou shalt, Phaeton, thou shalt.Dem. Alas, sir, Horace! he is a mere sponge; nothing but Humoursand observation; he goes up and down sucking from every society,and when he comes home squeezes himself dry again. I know him, I.Tuc. Thou say'st true, my poor poetical fury, he will pen all heknows. A sharp thorny-tooth, a satirical rascal, By him; he carrieshay in his horn: he will sooner lose his best friend, than hisleast jest. What he once drops upon paper, against a man, liveseternally to upbraid him in the mouth of every slave,tankard-bearer, or waterman; not a bawd, or a boy that comes fromthe bake-house, but shall point at him: 'tis all dog, and scorpion;he carries poison in his teeth, and a sting in his tail. Fough!body of Jove! I'll have the slave whipt one of these days for hisSatires and his Humours, by one cashier'd clerk or another.Cris. We'll undertake him, captain.Dem. Ay, and tickle him i'faith, for his arrogancy and hisimpudence, in commending his own things; and for his translating, Ican trace him, i'faith. O, he is the most open fellow living; I hadas lieve as a new suit I were at it.Tuc. Say no more then, but do it; 'tis the only way to get thee anew suit; sting him, my little neufts; I'll give you instructions:I'll be your intelligencer; we'll all join, and hang upon him likeso many horse-leeches, the players and all. We shall sup together,soon; and then we'll conspire, i'faith.Gal. O that Horace had stayed still here!Tib. So would not I; for both these would have turn'd Pythagoreansthen.Gal. What, mute?Tib. Ay, as fishes, i'faith: come, ladies, shall we go?Cyth. We wait you, sir. But mistress Chloe asks, if you have not agod to spare for this gentleman.Gal. Who, captain Tucca?Cyth. Ay, he.Gal. Yes, if we can invite him along, he shall be Mars.Chloe. Has Mars any thing to do with Venus?Tib. O, most of all, lady.Chloe. Nay, then I pray let him be invited: And what shallCrispinus be?Tib. Mercury, mistress Chloe.Chloe. Mercury! that's a poet, is it?Gal. No, lady, but somewhat inclining that way; he is a herald atarms.Chloe. A herald at arms! good; and Mercury! pretty: he has to dowith Venus too?Tib. A little with her face, lady; or so.Chloe. 'Tis very well; pray let us go, I long to be at it.Cyth. Gentlemen, shall we pray your companies along?Cris. You shall not only pray, but prevail, lady.—Come, sweetcaptain.Tuc. Yes, I follow: but thou must not talk of this now, my littlebankrupt.Alb. Captain, look here, mum.Dem. I'll go write, sir.[Exeunt.