ACT II
SCENE I.—THE COURT.
ENTER CUPID AND MERCURY, DISGUISED AS PAGES.
CUP. Why, this was most unexpectedly followed, my divine delicate
Mercury, by the beard of Jove, thou art a precious deity.
MER. Nay, Cupid, leave to speak improperly; since we are turn'd
cracks, let's study to be like cracks; practise their language, and
behaviours, and not with a dead imitation: Act freely, carelessly,
and capriciously, as if our veins ran with quicksilver, and not
utter a phrase, but what shall come forth steep'd in the very brine
of conceit, and sparkle like salt in fire.
CUP. That's not every one's happiness, Hermes: Though you can
presume upon the easiness and dexterity of your wit, you shall give
me leave to be a little jealous of mine; and not desperately to
hazard it after your capering humour.
MER. Nay, then, Cupid, I think we must have you hood-wink'd again;
for you are grown too provident since your eyes were at liberty.
CUP. Not so, Mercury, I am still blind Cupid to thee.
MER. And what to the lady nymph you serve?
CUP. Troth, page, boy, and sirrah: these are all my titles.
MER. Then thou hast not altered thy name with thy disguise?
CUP. O, no, that had been supererogation; you shall never hear
your courtier call but by one of these three.
MER. Faith, then both our fortunes are the same.
CUP. Why, what parcel of man hast thou lighted on for a master?
MER. Such a one as, before I begin to decipher him, I dare not
affirm to be any thing less than a courtier. So much he is during
this open time of revels, and would be longer, but that his means
are to leave him shortly after. His name is Hedon, a gallant
wholly consecrated to his pleasures.
CUP. Hedon! he uses much to my lady's chamber, I think.
MER. How is she call'd, and then I can shew thee?
CUP. Madame Philautia.
MER. O ay, he affects her very particularly indeed. These are his
graces. He doth (besides me) keep a barber and a monkey; he has a
rich wrought waistcoat to entertain his visitants in, with a cap
almost suitable. His curtains and bedding are thought to be his
own; his bathing-tub is not suspected. He loves to have a fencer,
a pedant, and a musician seen in his lodging a-mornings.
CUP. And not a poet?
MER. Fie no: himself is a rhymer, and that's thought better than
a poet. He is not lightly within to his mercer, no, though he come
when he takes physic, which is commonly after his play. He beats a
tailor very well, but a stocking-seller admirably: and so
consequently any one he owes money to, that dares not resist him.
He never makes general invitement, but against the publishing of a
new suit; marry, then you shall have more drawn to his lodging,
than come to the launching of some three ships; especially if he be
furnish'd with supplies for the retiring of his old wardrobe from
pawn: if not, he does hire a stock of apparel, and some forty or
fifty pound in gold, for that forenoon to shew. He is thought a
very necessary perfume for the presence, and for that only cause
welcome thither: six milliners' shops afford you not the like
scent. He courts ladies with how many great horse he hath rid that
morning, or how oft he hath done the whole, or half the pommado in a
seven-night before: and sometime ventures so far upon the virtue of
his pomander, that he dares tell 'em, how many shirts he has sweat
at tennis that week; but wisely conceals so many dozen of balls he
is on the score. Here he comes, that is all this.
ENTER HEDON, ANAIDES, AND GELAIA.
HED. Boy!
MER. Sir.
HED. Are any of the ladies in the presence?
MER. None yet, sir.
HED. Give me some gold,—more.
ANA. Is that thy boy, Hedon?
HED. Ay, what think'st thou of him?
ANA. I'd geld him; I warrant he has the philosopher's stone.
HED. Well said, my good melancholy devil: sirrah, I have devised
one or two of the prettiest oaths, this morning in my bed, as ever
thou heard'st, to protest withal in the presence.
ANA. Prithee, let's hear them.
HED. Soft, thou'lt use them afore me.
ANA. No, d—mn me then—I have more oaths than I know how to
utter, by this air.
HED. Faith, one is, "By the tip of your ear, sweet lady." Is it
not pretty, and genteel?
ANA. Yes, for the person 'tis applied to, a lady. It should be
light, and—
HED. Nay, the other is better, exceeds it much: the invention is
farther fet too. "By the white valley that lies between the alpine
hills of your bosom, I protest.—"
ANA. Well, you travell'd for that, Hedon.
MER. Ay, in a map, where his eyes were but blind guides to his
understanding, it seems.
HED. And then I have a salutation will nick all, by this caper:
hay!
ANA. How is that?
HED. You know I call madam Philautia, my Honour; and she calls me
her Ambition. Now, when I meet her in the presence anon, I will
come to her, and say, "Sweet Honour, I have hitherto contented my
sense with the lilies of your hand; but now I will taste the roses
of your lip"; and, withal, kiss her: to which she cannot but
blushing answer, "Nay now you are too ambitious." And then do I
reply: "I cannot be too Ambitious of Honour, sweet lady." Will't
not be good? ha? ha?
ANA. O, assure your soul.
HED. By heaven, I think 'twill be excellent: and a very politic
achievement of a kiss.
ANA. I have thought upon one for Moria of a sudden too, if it take.
HED. What is't, my dear Invention?
ANA. Marry, I will come to her, (and she always wears a muff, if
you be remembered,) and I will tell her, "Madam your whole self
cannot but be perfectly wise; for your hands have wit enough to
keep themselves warm."
HED. Now, before Jove, admirable! [GELAIA LAUGHS.] Look, thy page
takes it too. By Phoebus, my sweet facetious rascal, I could eat
water-gruel with thee a month for this jest, my dear rogue.
ANA. O, Hercules 'tis your only dish; above all your potatoes or
oyster-pies in the world.
HED. I have ruminated upon a most rare wish too, and the prophecy
to it; but I'll have some friend to be the prophet; as thus: I do
wish myself one of my mistress's cioppini. Another demands, Why
would he be one of his mistress's cioppini? a third answers,
Because he would make her higher: a fourth shall say, That will
make her proud: and a fifth shall conclude, Then do I prophesy
pride will have a fall;—and he shall give it her.
ANA. I will be your prophet. Gods so, it will be most exquisite;
thou art a fine inventious rogue, sirrah.
HED. Nay, and I have posies for rings, too, and riddles, that they
dream not of.
ANA. Tut, they'll do that, when they come to sleep on them, time
enough: But were thy devices never in the presence yet, Hedon?
HED. O, no, I disdain that.
ANA. 'Twere good we went afore then, and brought them acquainted
with the room where they shall act, lest the strangeness of it put
them out of countenance, when they should come forth.
[EXEUNT HEDON AND ANAIDES.]
CUP. Is that a courtier, too.
MER. Troth, no; he has two essential parts of the courtier, pride
and ignorance; marry, the rest come somewhat after the ordinary
gallant. 'Tis Impudence itself, Anaides; one that speaks all that
comes in his cheeks, and will blush no more than a sackbut. He
lightly occupies the jester's room at the table, and keeps
laughter, Gelaia, a wench in page's attire, following him in place
of a squire, whom he now and then tickles with some strange
ridiculous stuff, utter'd as his land came to him, by chance. He
will censure or discourse of any thing, but as absurdly as you
would wish. His fashion is not to take knowledge of him that is
beneath him in clothes. He never drinks below the salt. He does
naturally admire his wit that wears gold lace, or tissue: stabs
any man that speaks more contemptibly of the scholar than he. He
is a great proficient in all the illiberal sciences, as cheating,
drinking, swaggering, whoring, and such like: never kneels but to
pledge healths, nor prays but for a pipe of pudding-tobacco. He
will blaspheme in his shirt. The oaths which he vomits at one
supper would maintain a town of garrison in good swearing a
twelvemonth. One other genuine quality he has which crowns all
these, and that is this: to a friend in want, he will not depart
with the weight of a soldered groat, lest the world might censure
him prodigal, or report him a gull: marry, to his cockatrice or
punquetto, half a dozen taffata gowns or satin kirtles in a pair or
two of months, why, they are nothing.
CUP. I commend him, he is one of my clients.
[THEY RETIRE TO THE BACK OF THE STAGE.]
ENTER AMORPHUS, ASOTUS, AND COS.
AMO. Come, sir. You are now within regard of the presence, and
see, the privacy of this room how sweetly it offers itself to our
retired intendments.—Page, cast a vigilant and enquiring eye
about, that we be not rudely surprised by the approach of some
ruder stranger.
COS. I warrant you, sir. I'll tell you when the wolf enters, fear
nothing.
MER. O what a mass of benefit shall we possess, in being the
invisible spectators of this strange show now to be acted!
AMO. Plant yourself there, sir; and observe me. You shall now, as
well be the ocular, as the ear-witness, how clearly I can refel
that paradox, or rather pseudodox, of those, which hold the face to
be the index of the mind, which, I assure you, is not so in any
politic creature: for instance; I will now give you the particular
and distinct face of every your most noted species of persons, as
your merchant, your scholar, your soldier, your lawyer, courtier,
etc., and each of these so truly, as you would swear, but that your
eye shall see the variation of the lineament, it were my most
proper and genuine aspect. First, for your merchant, or city-face,
'tis thus; a dull, plodding-face, still looking in a direct line,
forward: there is no great matter in this face. Then have you
your student's, or academic face; which is here an honest, simple,
and methodical face; but somewhat more spread then the former. The
third is your soldier's face, a menacing and astounding face, that
looks broad and big: the grace of his face consisteth much in a
beard. The anti-face to this, is your lawyer's face, a contracted,
subtile, and intricate face, full of quirks and turnings, a
labyrinthean face, now angularly, now circularly, every way
aspected. Next is your statist's face, a serious, solemn, and
supercilious face, full of formal and square gravity; the eye, for
the most part, deeply and artificially shadow'd; there is great
judgment required in the making of this face. But now, to come to
your face of faces, or courtier's face; 'tis of three sorts,
according to our subdivision of a courtier, elementary, practic,
and theoric. Your courtier theoric, is he that hath arrived to his
farthest, and doth now know the court rather by speculation than
practice; and this is his face: a fastidious and oblique face; that
looks as it went with a vice, and were screw'd thus. Your courtier
practic, is he that is yet in his path, his course, his way, and
hath not touch'd the punctilio or point of his hopes; his face is
here: a most promising, open, smooth, and overflowing face, that
seems as it would run and pour itself into you: somewhat a
northerly face. Your courtier elementary, is one but newly
enter'd, or as it were in the alphabet, or ut-re-mi-fa-sol-la of
courtship. Note well this face, for it is this you must practise.
ASO. I'll practise them all, if you please, sir.
AMO. Ay, hereafter you may: and it will not be altogether an
ungrateful study. For, let your soul be assured of this, in any
rank or profession whatever, the more general or major part of
opinion goes with the face and simply respects nothing else.
Therefore, if that can be made exactly, curiously, exquisitely,
thoroughly, it is enough: but for the present you shall only apply
yourself to this face of the elementary courtier, a light,
revelling, and protesting face, now blushing, now smiling, which
you may help much with a wanton wagging of your head, thus, (a
feather will teach you,) or with kissing your finger that hath the
ruby, or playing with some string of your band, which is a most
quaint kind of melancholy besides: or, if among ladies, laughing
loud, and crying up your own wit, though perhaps borrow'd, it is
not amiss. Where is your page? call for your casting-bottle, and
place your mirror in your hat, as I told you; so! Come, look not
pale, observe me, set your face, and enter.
MER. O, for some excellent painter, to have taken the copy of all
these faces! [ASIDE.]
ASO. Prosaites!
AMO. Fie! I premonish you of that: in the court, boy, lacquey, or
sirrah.
COS. Master, lupus in—O, 'tis Prosaites.
ENTER PROSAITES.
ASO. Sirrah, prepare my casting-bottle; I think I must be
enforced to purchase me another page; you see how at hand Cos waits
here.
[EXEUNT AMORPHUS, ASOTUS, COS, AND PROSAITES.]
MER. So will he too in time.
CUP. What's he Mercury?
MER. A notable smelt. One that hath newly entertain'd the beggar
to follow him, but cannot get him to wait near enough. 'Tis
Asotus, the heir of Philargyrus; but first I'll give ye the other's
character, which may make his the clearer. He that is with him is
Amorphus, a traveller, one so made out of the mixture of shreds of
forms, that himself is truly deform'd. He walks most commonly with
a clove or pick-tooth in his mouth, he is the very mint of
compliment, all his behaviours are printed, his face is another
volume of essays, and his beard is an Aristarchus. He speaks all
cream skimm'd, and more affected than a dozen waiting women. He
is his own promoter in every place. The wife of the ordinary gives
him his diet to maintain her table in discourse; which, indeed, is
a mere tyranny over her other guests, for he will usurp all the
talk: ten constables are not so tedious. He is no great shifter;
once a year his apparel is ready to revolt. He doth use much to
arbitrate quarrels, and fights himself, exceeding well, out at a
window. He will lie cheaper than any beggar, and louder than most
clocks; for which he is right properly accommodated to the
Whetstone, his page. The other gallant is his zany, and doth most
of these tricks after him; sweats to imitate him in every thing to
a hair, except a beard, which is not yet extant. He doth learn to
make strange sauces, to eat anchovies, maccaroni, bovoli, fagioli,
and caviare, because he loves them; speaks as he speaks, looks,
walks, goes so in clothes and fashion: is in all as if he were
moulded of him. Marry, before they met, he had other very pretty
sufficiencies, which yet he retains some light impression of; as
frequenting a dancing school, and grievously torturing strangers
with inquisition after his grace in his galliard. He buys a fresh
acquaintance at any rate. His eyes and his raiment confer much
together as he goes in the street. He treads nicely like the
fellow that walks upon ropes, especially the first Sunday of his
silk stockings; and when he is most neat and new, you shall strip
him with commendations.
CUP. Here comes another. [CRITES PASSES OVER THE STAGE.]
MER. Ay, but one of another strain, Cupid; This fellow weighs
somewhat.
CUP. His name, Hermes?
MER. Crites. A creature of a most perfect and divine temper: one,
in whom the humours and elements are peaceably met, without
emulation of precedency; he is neither too fantastically
melancholy, too slowly phlegmatic, too lightly sanguine, or too
rashly choleric; but in all so composed and ordered; as it is clear
Nature went about some full work, she did more than make a man when
she made him. His discourse is like his behaviour, uncommon, but
not unpleasing; he is prodigal of neither. He strives rather to be
that which men call judicious, than to be thought so; and is so
truly learned, that he affects not to shew it. He will think and
speak his thought both freely; but as distant from depraving
another man's merit, as proclaiming his own. For his valour, 'tis
such, that he dares as little to offer any injury, as receive one.
In sum, he hath a most ingenuous and sweet spirit, a sharp and
season'd wit, a straight judgment and a strong mind. Fortune
could never break him, nor make him less. He counts it his
pleasure to despise pleasures, and is more delighted with good
deeds than goods. It is a competency to him that he can be
virtuous. He doth neither covet nor fear; he hath too much reason
to do either; and that commends all things to him.
CUP. Not better than Mercury commends him.
MER. O, Cupid, 'tis beyond my deity to give him his due praises:
I could leave my place in heaven to live among mortals, so I were
sure to be no other than he.
CUP. 'Slight, I believe he is your minion, you seem to be so
ravish'd with him.
MER. He's one I would not have a wry thought darted against,
willingly.
CUP. No, but a straight shaft in his bosom I'll promise him, if I
am Cytherea's son.
MER. Shall we go, Cupid?
CUP. Stay, and see the ladies now: they'll come presently. I'll
help to paint them.
MER. What lay colour upon colour! that affords but an ill blazon.
CUP. Here comes metal to help it, the lady Argurion.
[ARGURION PASSES OVER THE STAGE.]
MER. Money, money.
CUP. The same. A nymph of a most wandering and giddy disposition,
humorous as the air, she'll run from gallant to gallant, as they
sit at primero in the presence, most strangely, and seldom stays
with any. She spreads as she goes. To-day you shall have her look
as clear and fresh as the morning, and to-morrow as melancholic as
midnight. She takes special pleasure in a close obscure lodging,
and for that cause visits the city so often, where she has many
secret true concealing favourites. When she comes abroad she's
more loose and scattering than dust, and will fly from place to
place, as she were wrapped with a whirlwind. Your young student,
for the most part, she affects not, only salutes him, and away: a
poet, nor a philosopher, she is hardly brought to take any notice
of; no, though he be some part of an alchemist. She loves a player
well, and a lawyer infinitely; but your fool above all. She can do
much in court for the obtaining of any suit whatsoever, no door
but flies open to her, her presence is above a charm. The worst in
her is want of keeping state, and too much descending into inferior
and base offices; she's for any coarse employment you will put upon
her, as to be your procurer, or pander.
MER. Peace, Cupid, here comes more work for you, another character
or two.
ENTER PHANTASTE, MORIA, AND PHILAUTIA.
PHA. Stay sweet Philautia; I'll but change my fan, and go
presently.
MOR. Now, in very good serious, ladies, I will have this order
revers'd, the presence must be better maintain'd from you: a
quarter past eleven, and ne'er a nymph in prospective! Beshrew my
hand, there must be a reform'd discipline. Is that your new ruff,
sweet lady-bird? By my troth, 'tis most intricately rare.
MER. Good Jove, what reverend gentlewoman in years might this be?
CUP. 'Tis madam Moria, guardian of the nymphs; one that is not now
to be persuaded of her wit; she will think herself wise against all
the judgments that come. A lady made all of voice and air, talks
any thing of any thing. She is like one of your ignorant poetasters
of the time, who, when they have got acquainted with a strange
word, never rest till they have wrung it in, though it loosen the
whole fabric of their sense.
MER. That was pretty and sharply noted, Cupid.
CUP. She will tell you, Philosophy was a fine reveller, when she
was young, and a gallant, and that then, though she say it, she was
thought to be the dame Dido and Helen of the court: as also, what
a sweet dog she had this time four years, and how it was called
Fortune; and that, if the Fates had not cut his thread, he had been
a dog to have given entertainment to any gallant in this kingdom;
and unless she had whelp'd it herself, she could not have loved a
thing better in this world.
MER. O, I prithee no more; I am full of her.
CUP. Yes, I must needs tell you she composes a sack-posset well;
and would court a young page sweetly, but that her breath is
against it.
MER. Now, her breath or something more strong protect me from her!
The other, the other, Cupid.
CUP. O, that's my lady and mistress, madam Philautia. She admires
not herself for any one particularity, but for all: she is fair,
and she knows it; she has a pretty light wit too, and she knows it;
she can dance, and she knows that too; play at shuttle-cock, and
that too: no quality she has, but she shall take a very particular
knowledge of, and most lady-like commend it to you. You shall have
her at any time read you the history of herself, and very subtilely
run over another lady's sufficiencies to come to her own. She has
a good superficial judgment in painting; and would seem to have so
in poetry. A most complete lady in the opinion of some three
beside herself.
PHI. Faith, how liked you my quip to Hedon, about the garter?
Was't not witty?
MOR. Exceeding witty and integrate: you did so aggravate the jest
withal.
PHI. And did I not dance movingly the last night?
MOR. Movingly! out of measure, in troth, sweet charge.
MER. A happy commendation, to dance out of measure!
MOR. Save only you wanted the swim in the turn: O! when I was at
fourteen—
PHI. Nay, that's mine own from any nymph in the court, I'm sure
on't; therefore you mistake me in that, guardian: both the swim and
the trip are properly mine; every body will affirm it that has any
judgment in dancing, I assure you.
PHA. Come now, Philautia, I am for you; shall we go?
PHI. Ay, good Phantaste: What! have you changed your head-tire?
PHA. Yes, faith; the other was so near the common, it had no
extraordinary grace; besides, I had worn it almost a day, in good
troth.
PHI. I'll be sworn, this is most excellent for the device, and
rare; 'tis after the Italian print we look'd on t'other night.
PHA. 'Tis so: by this fan, I cannot abide any thing that savours
the poor over-worn cut, that has any kindred with it; I must have
variety, I: this mixing in fashion, I hate it worse than to burn
juniper in my chamber, I protest.
PHI. And yet we cannot have a new peculiar court-tire, but these
retainers will have it; these suburb Sunday-waiters; these
courtiers for high days; I know not what I should call 'em—
PHA. O, ay, they do most pitifully imitate; but I have a tire a
coming, i'faith, shall—
MOR. In good certain, madam, it makes you look most heavenly; but,
lay your hand on your heart, you never skinn'd a new beauty more
prosperously in your life, nor more metaphysically: look good lady,
sweet lady, look.
PHI. 'Tis very clear and well, believe me. But if you had seen
mine yesterday, when 'twas young, you would have—Who's your
doctor, Phantaste?
PHA. Nay, that's counsel, Philautia; you shall pardon me: yet I'll
assure you he's the most dainty, sweet, absolute, rare man of the
whole college. O! his very looks, his discourse, his behaviour, all
he does is physic, I protest.
PHI. For heaven's sake, his name, good dear Phantaste?
PHA. No, no, no, no, no, no, believe me, not for a million of
heavens: I will not make him cheap. Fie—
[EXEUNT PHANTASTE, MORIA, AND PHILAUTIA.]
CUP. There is a nymph too of a most curious and elaborate strain,
light, all motion, an ubiquitary, she is every where, Phantaste—
MER. Her very name speaks her, let her pass. But are these,
Cupid, the stars of Cynthia's court? Do these nymphs attend upon
Diana?
CUP. They are in her court, Mercury, but not as stars; these never
come in the presence of Cynthia. The nymphs that make her train
are the divine Arete, Time, Phronesis, Thauma, and others of that
high sort. These are privately brought in by Moria in this
licentious time, against her knowledge; and, like so many meteors,
will vanish when she appears.
ENTER PROSAITES SINGING, FOLLOWED BY GELAIA AND COS, WITH BOTTLES.
Come follow me, my wags, and say, as I say,
There's no riches but in rags, hey day, hey day:
You that profess this art, come away, come away,
And help to bear a part. Hey day, hey day, etc.
[MERCURY AND CUPID COME FORWARD.]
MER. What, those that were our fellow pages but now, so soon
preferr'd to be yeomen of the bottles! The mystery, the mystery,
good wags?
CUP. Some diet-drink they have the guard of.
PRO. No, sir, we are going in quest of a strange fountain, lately
found out.
CUP. By whom?
COS. My master or the great discoverer, Amorphus.
MER. Thou hast well entitled him, Cos, for he will discover all he
knows.
GEL. Ay, and a little more too, when the spirit is upon him.
PRO. O, the good travelling gentleman yonder has caused such a
drought in the presence, with reporting the wonders of this new
water, that all the ladies and gallants lie languishing upon the
rushes, like so many pounded cattle in the midst of harvest,
sighing one to another, and gasping, as if each of them expected a
cock from the fountain to be brought into his mouth; and without
we return quickly, they are all, as a youth would say, no better
then a few trouts cast ashore, or a dish of eels in a sand-bag.
MER. Well then, you were best dispatch, and have a care of them.
Come, Cupid, thou and I'll go peruse this dry wonder. [EXEUNT.]
ENTER CUPID AND MERCURY, DISGUISED AS PAGES.
CUP. Why, this was most unexpectedly followed, my divine delicate
Mercury, by the beard of Jove, thou art a precious deity.
MER. Nay, Cupid, leave to speak improperly; since we are turn'd
cracks, let's study to be like cracks; practise their language, and
behaviours, and not with a dead imitation: Act freely, carelessly,
and capriciously, as if our veins ran with quicksilver, and not
utter a phrase, but what shall come forth steep'd in the very brine
of conceit, and sparkle like salt in fire.
CUP. That's not every one's happiness, Hermes: Though you can
presume upon the easiness and dexterity of your wit, you shall give
me leave to be a little jealous of mine; and not desperately to
hazard it after your capering humour.
MER. Nay, then, Cupid, I think we must have you hood-wink'd again;
for you are grown too provident since your eyes were at liberty.
CUP. Not so, Mercury, I am still blind Cupid to thee.
MER. And what to the lady nymph you serve?
CUP. Troth, page, boy, and sirrah: these are all my titles.
MER. Then thou hast not altered thy name with thy disguise?
CUP. O, no, that had been supererogation; you shall never hear
your courtier call but by one of these three.
MER. Faith, then both our fortunes are the same.
CUP. Why, what parcel of man hast thou lighted on for a master?
MER. Such a one as, before I begin to decipher him, I dare not
affirm to be any thing less than a courtier. So much he is during
this open time of revels, and would be longer, but that his means
are to leave him shortly after. His name is Hedon, a gallant
wholly consecrated to his pleasures.
CUP. Hedon! he uses much to my lady's chamber, I think.
MER. How is she call'd, and then I can shew thee?
CUP. Madame Philautia.
MER. O ay, he affects her very particularly indeed. These are his
graces. He doth (besides me) keep a barber and a monkey; he has a
rich wrought waistcoat to entertain his visitants in, with a cap
almost suitable. His curtains and bedding are thought to be his
own; his bathing-tub is not suspected. He loves to have a fencer,
a pedant, and a musician seen in his lodging a-mornings.
CUP. And not a poet?
MER. Fie no: himself is a rhymer, and that's thought better than
a poet. He is not lightly within to his mercer, no, though he come
when he takes physic, which is commonly after his play. He beats a
tailor very well, but a stocking-seller admirably: and so
consequently any one he owes money to, that dares not resist him.
He never makes general invitement, but against the publishing of a
new suit; marry, then you shall have more drawn to his lodging,
than come to the launching of some three ships; especially if he be
furnish'd with supplies for the retiring of his old wardrobe from
pawn: if not, he does hire a stock of apparel, and some forty or
fifty pound in gold, for that forenoon to shew. He is thought a
very necessary perfume for the presence, and for that only cause
welcome thither: six milliners' shops afford you not the like
scent. He courts ladies with how many great horse he hath rid that
morning, or how oft he hath done the whole, or half the pommado in a
seven-night before: and sometime ventures so far upon the virtue of
his pomander, that he dares tell 'em, how many shirts he has sweat
at tennis that week; but wisely conceals so many dozen of balls he
is on the score. Here he comes, that is all this.
ENTER HEDON, ANAIDES, AND GELAIA.
HED. Boy!
MER. Sir.
HED. Are any of the ladies in the presence?
MER. None yet, sir.
HED. Give me some gold,—more.
ANA. Is that thy boy, Hedon?
HED. Ay, what think'st thou of him?
ANA. I'd geld him; I warrant he has the philosopher's stone.
HED. Well said, my good melancholy devil: sirrah, I have devised
one or two of the prettiest oaths, this morning in my bed, as ever
thou heard'st, to protest withal in the presence.
ANA. Prithee, let's hear them.
HED. Soft, thou'lt use them afore me.
ANA. No, d—mn me then—I have more oaths than I know how to
utter, by this air.
HED. Faith, one is, "By the tip of your ear, sweet lady." Is it
not pretty, and genteel?
ANA. Yes, for the person 'tis applied to, a lady. It should be
light, and—
HED. Nay, the other is better, exceeds it much: the invention is
farther fet too. "By the white valley that lies between the alpine
hills of your bosom, I protest.—"
ANA. Well, you travell'd for that, Hedon.
MER. Ay, in a map, where his eyes were but blind guides to his
understanding, it seems.
HED. And then I have a salutation will nick all, by this caper:
hay!
ANA. How is that?
HED. You know I call madam Philautia, my Honour; and she calls me
her Ambition. Now, when I meet her in the presence anon, I will
come to her, and say, "Sweet Honour, I have hitherto contented my
sense with the lilies of your hand; but now I will taste the roses
of your lip"; and, withal, kiss her: to which she cannot but
blushing answer, "Nay now you are too ambitious." And then do I
reply: "I cannot be too Ambitious of Honour, sweet lady." Will't
not be good? ha? ha?
ANA. O, assure your soul.
HED. By heaven, I think 'twill be excellent: and a very politic
achievement of a kiss.
ANA. I have thought upon one for Moria of a sudden too, if it take.
HED. What is't, my dear Invention?
ANA. Marry, I will come to her, (and she always wears a muff, if
you be remembered,) and I will tell her, "Madam your whole self
cannot but be perfectly wise; for your hands have wit enough to
keep themselves warm."
HED. Now, before Jove, admirable! [GELAIA LAUGHS.] Look, thy page
takes it too. By Phoebus, my sweet facetious rascal, I could eat
water-gruel with thee a month for this jest, my dear rogue.
ANA. O, Hercules 'tis your only dish; above all your potatoes or
oyster-pies in the world.
HED. I have ruminated upon a most rare wish too, and the prophecy
to it; but I'll have some friend to be the prophet; as thus: I do
wish myself one of my mistress's cioppini. Another demands, Why
would he be one of his mistress's cioppini? a third answers,
Because he would make her higher: a fourth shall say, That will
make her proud: and a fifth shall conclude, Then do I prophesy
pride will have a fall;—and he shall give it her.
ANA. I will be your prophet. Gods so, it will be most exquisite;
thou art a fine inventious rogue, sirrah.
HED. Nay, and I have posies for rings, too, and riddles, that they
dream not of.
ANA. Tut, they'll do that, when they come to sleep on them, time
enough: But were thy devices never in the presence yet, Hedon?
HED. O, no, I disdain that.
ANA. 'Twere good we went afore then, and brought them acquainted
with the room where they shall act, lest the strangeness of it put
them out of countenance, when they should come forth.
[EXEUNT HEDON AND ANAIDES.]
CUP. Is that a courtier, too.
MER. Troth, no; he has two essential parts of the courtier, pride
and ignorance; marry, the rest come somewhat after the ordinary
gallant. 'Tis Impudence itself, Anaides; one that speaks all that
comes in his cheeks, and will blush no more than a sackbut. He
lightly occupies the jester's room at the table, and keeps
laughter, Gelaia, a wench in page's attire, following him in place
of a squire, whom he now and then tickles with some strange
ridiculous stuff, utter'd as his land came to him, by chance. He
will censure or discourse of any thing, but as absurdly as you
would wish. His fashion is not to take knowledge of him that is
beneath him in clothes. He never drinks below the salt. He does
naturally admire his wit that wears gold lace, or tissue: stabs
any man that speaks more contemptibly of the scholar than he. He
is a great proficient in all the illiberal sciences, as cheating,
drinking, swaggering, whoring, and such like: never kneels but to
pledge healths, nor prays but for a pipe of pudding-tobacco. He
will blaspheme in his shirt. The oaths which he vomits at one
supper would maintain a town of garrison in good swearing a
twelvemonth. One other genuine quality he has which crowns all
these, and that is this: to a friend in want, he will not depart
with the weight of a soldered groat, lest the world might censure
him prodigal, or report him a gull: marry, to his cockatrice or
punquetto, half a dozen taffata gowns or satin kirtles in a pair or
two of months, why, they are nothing.
CUP. I commend him, he is one of my clients.
[THEY RETIRE TO THE BACK OF THE STAGE.]
ENTER AMORPHUS, ASOTUS, AND COS.
AMO. Come, sir. You are now within regard of the presence, and
see, the privacy of this room how sweetly it offers itself to our
retired intendments.—Page, cast a vigilant and enquiring eye
about, that we be not rudely surprised by the approach of some
ruder stranger.
COS. I warrant you, sir. I'll tell you when the wolf enters, fear
nothing.
MER. O what a mass of benefit shall we possess, in being the
invisible spectators of this strange show now to be acted!
AMO. Plant yourself there, sir; and observe me. You shall now, as
well be the ocular, as the ear-witness, how clearly I can refel
that paradox, or rather pseudodox, of those, which hold the face to
be the index of the mind, which, I assure you, is not so in any
politic creature: for instance; I will now give you the particular
and distinct face of every your most noted species of persons, as
your merchant, your scholar, your soldier, your lawyer, courtier,
etc., and each of these so truly, as you would swear, but that your
eye shall see the variation of the lineament, it were my most
proper and genuine aspect. First, for your merchant, or city-face,
'tis thus; a dull, plodding-face, still looking in a direct line,
forward: there is no great matter in this face. Then have you
your student's, or academic face; which is here an honest, simple,
and methodical face; but somewhat more spread then the former. The
third is your soldier's face, a menacing and astounding face, that
looks broad and big: the grace of his face consisteth much in a
beard. The anti-face to this, is your lawyer's face, a contracted,
subtile, and intricate face, full of quirks and turnings, a
labyrinthean face, now angularly, now circularly, every way
aspected. Next is your statist's face, a serious, solemn, and
supercilious face, full of formal and square gravity; the eye, for
the most part, deeply and artificially shadow'd; there is great
judgment required in the making of this face. But now, to come to
your face of faces, or courtier's face; 'tis of three sorts,
according to our subdivision of a courtier, elementary, practic,
and theoric. Your courtier theoric, is he that hath arrived to his
farthest, and doth now know the court rather by speculation than
practice; and this is his face: a fastidious and oblique face; that
looks as it went with a vice, and were screw'd thus. Your courtier
practic, is he that is yet in his path, his course, his way, and
hath not touch'd the punctilio or point of his hopes; his face is
here: a most promising, open, smooth, and overflowing face, that
seems as it would run and pour itself into you: somewhat a
northerly face. Your courtier elementary, is one but newly
enter'd, or as it were in the alphabet, or ut-re-mi-fa-sol-la of
courtship. Note well this face, for it is this you must practise.
ASO. I'll practise them all, if you please, sir.
AMO. Ay, hereafter you may: and it will not be altogether an
ungrateful study. For, let your soul be assured of this, in any
rank or profession whatever, the more general or major part of
opinion goes with the face and simply respects nothing else.
Therefore, if that can be made exactly, curiously, exquisitely,
thoroughly, it is enough: but for the present you shall only apply
yourself to this face of the elementary courtier, a light,
revelling, and protesting face, now blushing, now smiling, which
you may help much with a wanton wagging of your head, thus, (a
feather will teach you,) or with kissing your finger that hath the
ruby, or playing with some string of your band, which is a most
quaint kind of melancholy besides: or, if among ladies, laughing
loud, and crying up your own wit, though perhaps borrow'd, it is
not amiss. Where is your page? call for your casting-bottle, and
place your mirror in your hat, as I told you; so! Come, look not
pale, observe me, set your face, and enter.
MER. O, for some excellent painter, to have taken the copy of all
these faces! [ASIDE.]
ASO. Prosaites!
AMO. Fie! I premonish you of that: in the court, boy, lacquey, or
sirrah.
COS. Master, lupus in—O, 'tis Prosaites.
ENTER PROSAITES.
ASO. Sirrah, prepare my casting-bottle; I think I must be
enforced to purchase me another page; you see how at hand Cos waits
here.
[EXEUNT AMORPHUS, ASOTUS, COS, AND PROSAITES.]
MER. So will he too in time.
CUP. What's he Mercury?
MER. A notable smelt. One that hath newly entertain'd the beggar
to follow him, but cannot get him to wait near enough. 'Tis
Asotus, the heir of Philargyrus; but first I'll give ye the other's
character, which may make his the clearer. He that is with him is
Amorphus, a traveller, one so made out of the mixture of shreds of
forms, that himself is truly deform'd. He walks most commonly with
a clove or pick-tooth in his mouth, he is the very mint of
compliment, all his behaviours are printed, his face is another
volume of essays, and his beard is an Aristarchus. He speaks all
cream skimm'd, and more affected than a dozen waiting women. He
is his own promoter in every place. The wife of the ordinary gives
him his diet to maintain her table in discourse; which, indeed, is
a mere tyranny over her other guests, for he will usurp all the
talk: ten constables are not so tedious. He is no great shifter;
once a year his apparel is ready to revolt. He doth use much to
arbitrate quarrels, and fights himself, exceeding well, out at a
window. He will lie cheaper than any beggar, and louder than most
clocks; for which he is right properly accommodated to the
Whetstone, his page. The other gallant is his zany, and doth most
of these tricks after him; sweats to imitate him in every thing to
a hair, except a beard, which is not yet extant. He doth learn to
make strange sauces, to eat anchovies, maccaroni, bovoli, fagioli,
and caviare, because he loves them; speaks as he speaks, looks,
walks, goes so in clothes and fashion: is in all as if he were
moulded of him. Marry, before they met, he had other very pretty
sufficiencies, which yet he retains some light impression of; as
frequenting a dancing school, and grievously torturing strangers
with inquisition after his grace in his galliard. He buys a fresh
acquaintance at any rate. His eyes and his raiment confer much
together as he goes in the street. He treads nicely like the
fellow that walks upon ropes, especially the first Sunday of his
silk stockings; and when he is most neat and new, you shall strip
him with commendations.
CUP. Here comes another. [CRITES PASSES OVER THE STAGE.]
MER. Ay, but one of another strain, Cupid; This fellow weighs
somewhat.
CUP. His name, Hermes?
MER. Crites. A creature of a most perfect and divine temper: one,
in whom the humours and elements are peaceably met, without
emulation of precedency; he is neither too fantastically
melancholy, too slowly phlegmatic, too lightly sanguine, or too
rashly choleric; but in all so composed and ordered; as it is clear
Nature went about some full work, she did more than make a man when
she made him. His discourse is like his behaviour, uncommon, but
not unpleasing; he is prodigal of neither. He strives rather to be
that which men call judicious, than to be thought so; and is so
truly learned, that he affects not to shew it. He will think and
speak his thought both freely; but as distant from depraving
another man's merit, as proclaiming his own. For his valour, 'tis
such, that he dares as little to offer any injury, as receive one.
In sum, he hath a most ingenuous and sweet spirit, a sharp and
season'd wit, a straight judgment and a strong mind. Fortune
could never break him, nor make him less. He counts it his
pleasure to despise pleasures, and is more delighted with good
deeds than goods. It is a competency to him that he can be
virtuous. He doth neither covet nor fear; he hath too much reason
to do either; and that commends all things to him.
CUP. Not better than Mercury commends him.
MER. O, Cupid, 'tis beyond my deity to give him his due praises:
I could leave my place in heaven to live among mortals, so I were
sure to be no other than he.
CUP. 'Slight, I believe he is your minion, you seem to be so
ravish'd with him.
MER. He's one I would not have a wry thought darted against,
willingly.
CUP. No, but a straight shaft in his bosom I'll promise him, if I
am Cytherea's son.
MER. Shall we go, Cupid?
CUP. Stay, and see the ladies now: they'll come presently. I'll
help to paint them.
MER. What lay colour upon colour! that affords but an ill blazon.
CUP. Here comes metal to help it, the lady Argurion.
[ARGURION PASSES OVER THE STAGE.]
MER. Money, money.
CUP. The same. A nymph of a most wandering and giddy disposition,
humorous as the air, she'll run from gallant to gallant, as they
sit at primero in the presence, most strangely, and seldom stays
with any. She spreads as she goes. To-day you shall have her look
as clear and fresh as the morning, and to-morrow as melancholic as
midnight. She takes special pleasure in a close obscure lodging,
and for that cause visits the city so often, where she has many
secret true concealing favourites. When she comes abroad she's
more loose and scattering than dust, and will fly from place to
place, as she were wrapped with a whirlwind. Your young student,
for the most part, she affects not, only salutes him, and away: a
poet, nor a philosopher, she is hardly brought to take any notice
of; no, though he be some part of an alchemist. She loves a player
well, and a lawyer infinitely; but your fool above all. She can do
much in court for the obtaining of any suit whatsoever, no door
but flies open to her, her presence is above a charm. The worst in
her is want of keeping state, and too much descending into inferior
and base offices; she's for any coarse employment you will put upon
her, as to be your procurer, or pander.
MER. Peace, Cupid, here comes more work for you, another character
or two.
ENTER PHANTASTE, MORIA, AND PHILAUTIA.
PHA. Stay sweet Philautia; I'll but change my fan, and go
presently.
MOR. Now, in very good serious, ladies, I will have this order
revers'd, the presence must be better maintain'd from you: a
quarter past eleven, and ne'er a nymph in prospective! Beshrew my
hand, there must be a reform'd discipline. Is that your new ruff,
sweet lady-bird? By my troth, 'tis most intricately rare.
MER. Good Jove, what reverend gentlewoman in years might this be?
CUP. 'Tis madam Moria, guardian of the nymphs; one that is not now
to be persuaded of her wit; she will think herself wise against all
the judgments that come. A lady made all of voice and air, talks
any thing of any thing. She is like one of your ignorant poetasters
of the time, who, when they have got acquainted with a strange
word, never rest till they have wrung it in, though it loosen the
whole fabric of their sense.
MER. That was pretty and sharply noted, Cupid.
CUP. She will tell you, Philosophy was a fine reveller, when she
was young, and a gallant, and that then, though she say it, she was
thought to be the dame Dido and Helen of the court: as also, what
a sweet dog she had this time four years, and how it was called
Fortune; and that, if the Fates had not cut his thread, he had been
a dog to have given entertainment to any gallant in this kingdom;
and unless she had whelp'd it herself, she could not have loved a
thing better in this world.
MER. O, I prithee no more; I am full of her.
CUP. Yes, I must needs tell you she composes a sack-posset well;
and would court a young page sweetly, but that her breath is
against it.
MER. Now, her breath or something more strong protect me from her!
The other, the other, Cupid.
CUP. O, that's my lady and mistress, madam Philautia. She admires
not herself for any one particularity, but for all: she is fair,
and she knows it; she has a pretty light wit too, and she knows it;
she can dance, and she knows that too; play at shuttle-cock, and
that too: no quality she has, but she shall take a very particular
knowledge of, and most lady-like commend it to you. You shall have
her at any time read you the history of herself, and very subtilely
run over another lady's sufficiencies to come to her own. She has
a good superficial judgment in painting; and would seem to have so
in poetry. A most complete lady in the opinion of some three
beside herself.
PHI. Faith, how liked you my quip to Hedon, about the garter?
Was't not witty?
MOR. Exceeding witty and integrate: you did so aggravate the jest
withal.
PHI. And did I not dance movingly the last night?
MOR. Movingly! out of measure, in troth, sweet charge.
MER. A happy commendation, to dance out of measure!
MOR. Save only you wanted the swim in the turn: O! when I was at
fourteen—
PHI. Nay, that's mine own from any nymph in the court, I'm sure
on't; therefore you mistake me in that, guardian: both the swim and
the trip are properly mine; every body will affirm it that has any
judgment in dancing, I assure you.
PHA. Come now, Philautia, I am for you; shall we go?
PHI. Ay, good Phantaste: What! have you changed your head-tire?
PHA. Yes, faith; the other was so near the common, it had no
extraordinary grace; besides, I had worn it almost a day, in good
troth.
PHI. I'll be sworn, this is most excellent for the device, and
rare; 'tis after the Italian print we look'd on t'other night.
PHA. 'Tis so: by this fan, I cannot abide any thing that savours
the poor over-worn cut, that has any kindred with it; I must have
variety, I: this mixing in fashion, I hate it worse than to burn
juniper in my chamber, I protest.
PHI. And yet we cannot have a new peculiar court-tire, but these
retainers will have it; these suburb Sunday-waiters; these
courtiers for high days; I know not what I should call 'em—
PHA. O, ay, they do most pitifully imitate; but I have a tire a
coming, i'faith, shall—
MOR. In good certain, madam, it makes you look most heavenly; but,
lay your hand on your heart, you never skinn'd a new beauty more
prosperously in your life, nor more metaphysically: look good lady,
sweet lady, look.
PHI. 'Tis very clear and well, believe me. But if you had seen
mine yesterday, when 'twas young, you would have—Who's your
doctor, Phantaste?
PHA. Nay, that's counsel, Philautia; you shall pardon me: yet I'll
assure you he's the most dainty, sweet, absolute, rare man of the
whole college. O! his very looks, his discourse, his behaviour, all
he does is physic, I protest.
PHI. For heaven's sake, his name, good dear Phantaste?
PHA. No, no, no, no, no, no, believe me, not for a million of
heavens: I will not make him cheap. Fie—
[EXEUNT PHANTASTE, MORIA, AND PHILAUTIA.]
CUP. There is a nymph too of a most curious and elaborate strain,
light, all motion, an ubiquitary, she is every where, Phantaste—
MER. Her very name speaks her, let her pass. But are these,
Cupid, the stars of Cynthia's court? Do these nymphs attend upon
Diana?
CUP. They are in her court, Mercury, but not as stars; these never
come in the presence of Cynthia. The nymphs that make her train
are the divine Arete, Time, Phronesis, Thauma, and others of that
high sort. These are privately brought in by Moria in this
licentious time, against her knowledge; and, like so many meteors,
will vanish when she appears.
ENTER PROSAITES SINGING, FOLLOWED BY GELAIA AND COS, WITH BOTTLES.
Come follow me, my wags, and say, as I say,
There's no riches but in rags, hey day, hey day:
You that profess this art, come away, come away,
And help to bear a part. Hey day, hey day, etc.
[MERCURY AND CUPID COME FORWARD.]
MER. What, those that were our fellow pages but now, so soon
preferr'd to be yeomen of the bottles! The mystery, the mystery,
good wags?
CUP. Some diet-drink they have the guard of.
PRO. No, sir, we are going in quest of a strange fountain, lately
found out.
CUP. By whom?
COS. My master or the great discoverer, Amorphus.
MER. Thou hast well entitled him, Cos, for he will discover all he
knows.
GEL. Ay, and a little more too, when the spirit is upon him.
PRO. O, the good travelling gentleman yonder has caused such a
drought in the presence, with reporting the wonders of this new
water, that all the ladies and gallants lie languishing upon the
rushes, like so many pounded cattle in the midst of harvest,
sighing one to another, and gasping, as if each of them expected a
cock from the fountain to be brought into his mouth; and without
we return quickly, they are all, as a youth would say, no better
then a few trouts cast ashore, or a dish of eels in a sand-bag.
MER. Well then, you were best dispatch, and have a care of them.
Come, Cupid, thou and I'll go peruse this dry wonder. [EXEUNT.]
ACT III
SCENE I.—AN APARTMENT AT THE COURT.
ENTER AMORPHUS AND ASOTUS.
AMO. Sir, let not this discountenance or disgallant you a whit;
you must not sink under the first disaster. It is with your young
grammatical courtier, as with your neophyte player, a thing usual
to be daunted at the first presence or interview: you saw, there
was Hedon, and Anaides, far more practised gallants than yourself,
who were both out, to comfort you. It is no disgrace, no more than
for your adventurous reveller to fall by some inauspicious chance
in his galliard, or for some subtile politic to undertake the
bastinado, that the state might think worthily of him, and respect
him as a man well beaten to the world. What? hath your tailor
provided the property we spake of at your chamber, or no?
ASO. I think he has.
AMO. Nay, I entreat you, be not so flat and melancholic. Erect
your mind: you shall redeem this with the courtship I will teach
you against the afternoon. Where eat you to-day?
ASO. Where you please, sir; any where, I.
AMO. Come, let us go and taste some light dinner, a dish of sliced
caviare, or so; and after, you shall practise an hour at your
lodging some few forms that I have recall'd. If you had but so far
gathered your spirits to you, as to have taken up a rush when you
were out, and wagg'd it thus, or cleansed your teeth with it; or
but turn'd aside, and feign'd some business to whisper with your
page, till you had recovered yourself, or but found some slight
stain in your stocking, or any other pretty invention, so it had
been sudden, you might have come off with a most clear and courtly
grace.
ASO. A poison of all! I think I was forespoke, I.
AMO. No, I must tell you, you are not audacious enough; you must
frequent ordinaries a month more, to initiate yourself: in which
time, it will not be amiss, if, in private, you keep good your
acquaintance with Crites, or some other of his poor coat; visit his
lodging secretly and often; become an earnest suitor to hear some
of his labours.
ASO. O Jove! sir, I could never get him to read a line to me.
AMO. You must then wisely mix yourself in rank with such as you
know can; and, as your ears do meet with a new phrase, or an acute
jest, take it in: a quick nimble memory will lift it away, and, at
your next public meal, it is your own.
ASO. But I shall never utter it perfectly, sir.
AMO. No matter, let it come lame. In ordinary talk you shall play
it away, as you do your light crowns at primero: it will pass.
ASO. I shall attempt, sir.
AMO. Do. It is your shifting age for wit, and, I assure you, men
must be prudent. After this you may to court, and there fall in,
first with the waiting-woman, then with the lady. Put case they do
retain you there, as a fit property, to hire coaches some pair of
months, or so; or to read them asleep in afternoons upon some
pretty pamphlet, to breathe you; why, it shall in time embolden you
to some farther achievement: in the interim, you may fashion
yourself to be careless and impudent.
ASO. How if they would have me to make verses? I heard Hedon
spoke to for some.
AMO. Why, you must prove the aptitude of your genius; if you find
none, you must hearken out a vein, and buy; provided you pay for
the silence as for the work, then you may securely call it your
own.
ASO. Yes, and I'll give out my acquaintance with all the best
writers, to countenance me the more.
AMO. Rather seem not to know them, it is your best. Ay, be wise,
that you never so much as mention the name of one, nor remember it
mentioned; but if they be offer'd to you in discourse, shake your
light head, make between a sad and a smiling face, pity some, rail
at all, and commend yourself: 'tis your only safe and unsuspected
course. Come, you shall look back upon the court again to-day, and
be restored to your colours: I do now partly aim at the cause of
your repulse—which was ominous indeed—for as you enter at the
door, there is opposed to you the frame of a wolf in the hangings,
which, surprising your eye suddenly, gave a false alarm to the
heart; and that was it called your blood out of your face, and so
routed the whole rank of your spirits: I beseech you labour to
forget it. And remember, as I inculcated to you before, for your
comfort, Hedon and Anaides. [EXEUNT.]
ENTER AMORPHUS AND ASOTUS.
AMO. Sir, let not this discountenance or disgallant you a whit;
you must not sink under the first disaster. It is with your young
grammatical courtier, as with your neophyte player, a thing usual
to be daunted at the first presence or interview: you saw, there
was Hedon, and Anaides, far more practised gallants than yourself,
who were both out, to comfort you. It is no disgrace, no more than
for your adventurous reveller to fall by some inauspicious chance
in his galliard, or for some subtile politic to undertake the
bastinado, that the state might think worthily of him, and respect
him as a man well beaten to the world. What? hath your tailor
provided the property we spake of at your chamber, or no?
ASO. I think he has.
AMO. Nay, I entreat you, be not so flat and melancholic. Erect
your mind: you shall redeem this with the courtship I will teach
you against the afternoon. Where eat you to-day?
ASO. Where you please, sir; any where, I.
AMO. Come, let us go and taste some light dinner, a dish of sliced
caviare, or so; and after, you shall practise an hour at your
lodging some few forms that I have recall'd. If you had but so far
gathered your spirits to you, as to have taken up a rush when you
were out, and wagg'd it thus, or cleansed your teeth with it; or
but turn'd aside, and feign'd some business to whisper with your
page, till you had recovered yourself, or but found some slight
stain in your stocking, or any other pretty invention, so it had
been sudden, you might have come off with a most clear and courtly
grace.
ASO. A poison of all! I think I was forespoke, I.
AMO. No, I must tell you, you are not audacious enough; you must
frequent ordinaries a month more, to initiate yourself: in which
time, it will not be amiss, if, in private, you keep good your
acquaintance with Crites, or some other of his poor coat; visit his
lodging secretly and often; become an earnest suitor to hear some
of his labours.
ASO. O Jove! sir, I could never get him to read a line to me.
AMO. You must then wisely mix yourself in rank with such as you
know can; and, as your ears do meet with a new phrase, or an acute
jest, take it in: a quick nimble memory will lift it away, and, at
your next public meal, it is your own.
ASO. But I shall never utter it perfectly, sir.
AMO. No matter, let it come lame. In ordinary talk you shall play
it away, as you do your light crowns at primero: it will pass.
ASO. I shall attempt, sir.
AMO. Do. It is your shifting age for wit, and, I assure you, men
must be prudent. After this you may to court, and there fall in,
first with the waiting-woman, then with the lady. Put case they do
retain you there, as a fit property, to hire coaches some pair of
months, or so; or to read them asleep in afternoons upon some
pretty pamphlet, to breathe you; why, it shall in time embolden you
to some farther achievement: in the interim, you may fashion
yourself to be careless and impudent.
ASO. How if they would have me to make verses? I heard Hedon
spoke to for some.
AMO. Why, you must prove the aptitude of your genius; if you find
none, you must hearken out a vein, and buy; provided you pay for
the silence as for the work, then you may securely call it your
own.
ASO. Yes, and I'll give out my acquaintance with all the best
writers, to countenance me the more.
AMO. Rather seem not to know them, it is your best. Ay, be wise,
that you never so much as mention the name of one, nor remember it
mentioned; but if they be offer'd to you in discourse, shake your
light head, make between a sad and a smiling face, pity some, rail
at all, and commend yourself: 'tis your only safe and unsuspected
course. Come, you shall look back upon the court again to-day, and
be restored to your colours: I do now partly aim at the cause of
your repulse—which was ominous indeed—for as you enter at the
door, there is opposed to you the frame of a wolf in the hangings,
which, surprising your eye suddenly, gave a false alarm to the
heart; and that was it called your blood out of your face, and so
routed the whole rank of your spirits: I beseech you labour to
forget it. And remember, as I inculcated to you before, for your
comfort, Hedon and Anaides. [EXEUNT.]
SCENE II.—ANOTHER APARTMENT IN THE SAME.
ENTER HEDON AND ANAIDES.
HEDON. Heart, was there ever so prosperous an invention thus
unluckily perverted and spoiled, by a whoreson book-worm, a
candle-waster?
ANA. Nay, be not impatient, Hedon.
HED. 'Slight, I would fain know his name.
ANA. Hang him, poor grogan rascal! prithee think not of him: I'll
send for him to my lodging, and have him blanketed when thou wilt,
man.
HED. Ods so, I would thou couldst. Look, here he comes.
ENTER CRITES, AND WALKS IN A MUSING POSTURE AT THE BACK OF THE
STAGE.
Laugh at him, laugh at him; ha, ha, ha.
ANA. Fough! he smells all lamp-oil with studying by candle-light.
HED. How confidently he went by us, and carelessly! Never moved,
nor stirred at any thing! Did you observe him?
ANA. Ay, a pox on him, let him go, dormouse: he is in a dream
now. He has no other time to sleep, but thus when he walks abroad
to take the air.
HED. 'Sprecious, this afflicts me more than all the rest, that we
should so particularly direct our hate and contempt against him,
and he to carry it thus without wound or passion! 'tis
insufferable.
ANA. 'Slid, my dear Envy, if thou but say'st the word now, I'll
undo him eternally for thee.
HED. How, sweet Anaides?
ANA. Marry, half a score of us get him in, one night, and make him
pawn his wit for a supper.
HED. Away, thou hast such unseasonable jests! By this heaven, I
wonder at nothing more than our gentlemen ushers, that will suffer
a piece of serge or perpetuana to come into the presence: methinks
they should, out of their experience, better distinguish the
silken disposition of courtiers, than to let such terrible coarse
rags mix with us, able to fret any smooth or gentle society to the
threads with their rubbing devices.
ANA. Unless 'twere Lent, Ember-weeks, or fasting days, when the
place is most penuriously empty of all other good outsides. D—n
me, if I should adventure on his company once more, without a suit
of buff to defend my wit! he does nothing but stab, the slave!
How mischievously he cross'd thy device of the prophecy, there?
and Moria, she comes without her muff too, and there my invention
was lost.
HED. Well, I am resolved what I'll do.
ANA. What, my good spiritous spark?
HED. Marry, speak all the venom I can of him; and poison his
reputation in every place where I come.
ANA. 'Fore God, most courtly.
HED. And if I chance to be present where any question is made of
his sufficiencies, or of any thing he hath done private or public,
I'll censure it slightly, and ridiculously.
ANA. At any hand beware of that; so thou may'st draw thine own
judgment in suspect. No, I'll instruct thee what thou shalt do,
and by a safer means: approve any thing thou hearest of his, to the
received opinion of it; but if it be extraordinary, give it from
him to some other whom thou more particularly affect'st; that's the
way to plague him, and he shall never come to defend himself.
'Slud, I'll give out all he does is dictated from other men, and
swear it too, if thou'lt have me, and that I know the time and
place where he stole it, though my soul be guilty of no such thing;
and that I think, out of my heart, he hates such barren shifts: yet
to do thee a pleasure and him a disgrace, I'll damn myself, or do
any thing.
HED. Gramercy, my dear devil; we'll put it seriously in practice,
i'faith. [EXEUNT HEDON AND ANAIDES.]
CRI. [COMING FORWARD.]
Do, good Detraction, do, and I the while
Shall shake thy spight off with a careless smile.
Poor piteous gallants! what lean idle slights
Their thoughts suggest to flatter their starv'd hopes!
As if I knew not how to entertain
These straw-devices; but, of force must yield
To the weak stroke of their calumnious tongues.
What should I care what every dor doth buz
In credulous ears? It is a crown to me
That the best judgments can report me wrong'd;
Them liars; and their slanders impudent.
Perhaps, upon the rumour of their speeches,
Some grieved friend will whisper to me; Crites,
Men speak ill of thee. So they be ill men,
If they spake worse, 'twere better: for of such
To be dispraised, is the most perfect praise.
What can his censure hurt me, whom the world
Hath censured vile before me! If good Chrestus,
Euthus, or Phronimus, had spoke the words,
They would have moved me, and I should have call'd
My thoughts and actions to a strict account
Upon the hearing: but when I remember,
'Tis Hedon and Anaides, alas, then
I think but what they are, and am not stirr'd.
The one a light voluptuous reveller,
The other, a strange arrogating puff,
Both impudent, and ignorant enough;
That talk as they are wont, not as I merit;
Traduce by custom, as most dogs do bark,
Do nothing out of judgment, but disease,
Speak ill, because they never could speak well.
And who'd be angry with this race of creatures?
What wise physician have we ever seen
Moved with a frantic man? the same affects
That he doth bear to his sick patient,
Should a right mind carry to such as these;
And I do count it a most rare revenge,
That I can thus, with such a sweet neglect,
Pluck from them all the pleasure of their malice;
For that's the mark of all their enginous drifts,
To wound my patience, howso'er they seem
To aim at other objects; which if miss'd,
Their envy's like an arrow shot upright,
That, in the fall, endangers their own heads.
ENTER ARETE.
ARE. What, Crites! where have you drawn forth the day,
You have not visited your jealous friends?
CRI. Where I have seen, most honour'd Arete,
The strangest pageant, fashion'd like a court,
(At least I dreamt I saw it) so diffused,
So painted, pied, and full of rainbow strains;
As never yet, either by time, or place,
Was made the food to my distasted sense;
Nor can my weak imperfect memory
Now render half the forms unto my tongue,
That were convolved within this thrifty room.
Here stalks me by a proud and spangled sir,
That looks three handfuls higher then his foretop;
Savours himself alone, is only kind
And loving to himself; one that will speak
More dark and doubtful than six oracles!
Salutes a friend, as if he had a stitch;
Is his own chronicle, and scarce can eat
For regist'ring himself; is waited on
By mimics, jesters, panders, parasites,
And other such like prodigies of men.
He past, appears some mincing marmoset
Made all of clothes and face; his limbs so set
As if they had some voluntary act
Without man's motion, and must move just so
In spight of their creation: one that weighs
His breath between his teeth, and dares not smile
Beyond a point, for fear t'unstarch his look;
Hath travell'd to make legs, and seen the cringe
Of several courts, and courtiers; knows the time
Of giving titles, and of taking walls;
Hath read court common-places; made them his:
Studied the grammar of state, and all the rules
Each formal usher in that politic school
Can teach a man. A third comes, giving nods
To his repenting creditors, protests
To weeping suitors, takes the coming gold
Of insolent and base ambition,
That hourly rubs his dry and itchy palms;
Which griped, like burning coals, he hurls away
Into the laps of bawds, and buffoons' mouths.
With him there meets some subtle Proteus, one
Can change, and vary with all forms he sees;
Be any thing but honest; serves the time;
Hovers betwixt two factions, and explores
The drifts of both; which, with cross face, he bears
To the divided heads, and is received
With mutual grace of either: one that dares
Do deeds worthy the hurdle or the wheel,
To be thought somebody; and is in sooth
Such as the satirist points truly forth,
That only to his crimes owes all his worth.
ARE. You tell us wonders, Crites.
CRI. This is nothing.
There stands a neophite glazing of his face,
Pruning his clothes, perfuming of his hair,
Against his idol enters; and repeats,
Like an unperfect prologue, at third music,
His part of speeches, and confederate jests,
In passion to himself. Another swears
His scene of courtship over; bids, believe him,
Twenty times ere they will; anon, doth seem
As he would kiss away his hand in kindness;
Then walks off melancholic, and stands wreath'd,
As he were pinn'd up to the arras, thus.
A third is most in action, swims, and frisks,
Plays with his mistress's paps, salutes her pumps;
Adores her hems, her skirts, her knots, her curls,
Will spend his patrimony for a garter,
Or the least feather in her bounteous fan.
A fourth, he only comes in for a mute;
Divides the act with a dumb show, and exit.
Then must the ladies laugh, straight comes their scene,
A sixth times worse confusion then the rest.
Where you shall hear one talk of this man's eye,
Another of his lip, a third, his nose,
A fourth commend his leg, a fifth, his foot,
A sixth, his hand, and every one a limb;
That you would think the poor distorted gallant
Must there expire. Then fall they in discourse
Of tires, and fashions, how they must take place,
Where they may kiss, and whom, when to sit down,
And with what grace to rise; if they salute,
What court'sy they must use; such cobweb stuff
As would enforce the common'st sense abhor
Th' Arachnean workers.
ARE. Patience, gentle Crites.
This knot of spiders will be soon dissolved,
And all their webs swept out of Cynthia's court,
When once her glorious deity appears,
And but presents itself in her full light:
'Till when, go in, and spend your hours with us,
Your honour'd friends. Time and Phronesis,
In contemplation of our goddess' name.
Think on some sweet and choice invention now,
Worthy her serious and illustrious eyes,
That from the merit of it we may take
Desired occasion to prefer your worth,
And make your service known to Cynthia.
It is the pride of Arete to grace
Her studious lovers; and, in scorn of time,
Envy, and ignorance, to lift their state
Above a vulgar height. True happiness
Consists not in the multitude of friends,
But in their worth, and choice. Nor would I have
Virtue a popular regard pursue:
Let them be good that love me, though but few.
CRI. I kiss thy hands, divinest Arete,
And vow myself to thee, and Cynthia. [EXEUNT.]
ENTER HEDON AND ANAIDES.
HEDON. Heart, was there ever so prosperous an invention thus
unluckily perverted and spoiled, by a whoreson book-worm, a
candle-waster?
ANA. Nay, be not impatient, Hedon.
HED. 'Slight, I would fain know his name.
ANA. Hang him, poor grogan rascal! prithee think not of him: I'll
send for him to my lodging, and have him blanketed when thou wilt,
man.
HED. Ods so, I would thou couldst. Look, here he comes.
ENTER CRITES, AND WALKS IN A MUSING POSTURE AT THE BACK OF THE
STAGE.
Laugh at him, laugh at him; ha, ha, ha.
ANA. Fough! he smells all lamp-oil with studying by candle-light.
HED. How confidently he went by us, and carelessly! Never moved,
nor stirred at any thing! Did you observe him?
ANA. Ay, a pox on him, let him go, dormouse: he is in a dream
now. He has no other time to sleep, but thus when he walks abroad
to take the air.
HED. 'Sprecious, this afflicts me more than all the rest, that we
should so particularly direct our hate and contempt against him,
and he to carry it thus without wound or passion! 'tis
insufferable.
ANA. 'Slid, my dear Envy, if thou but say'st the word now, I'll
undo him eternally for thee.
HED. How, sweet Anaides?
ANA. Marry, half a score of us get him in, one night, and make him
pawn his wit for a supper.
HED. Away, thou hast such unseasonable jests! By this heaven, I
wonder at nothing more than our gentlemen ushers, that will suffer
a piece of serge or perpetuana to come into the presence: methinks
they should, out of their experience, better distinguish the
silken disposition of courtiers, than to let such terrible coarse
rags mix with us, able to fret any smooth or gentle society to the
threads with their rubbing devices.
ANA. Unless 'twere Lent, Ember-weeks, or fasting days, when the
place is most penuriously empty of all other good outsides. D—n
me, if I should adventure on his company once more, without a suit
of buff to defend my wit! he does nothing but stab, the slave!
How mischievously he cross'd thy device of the prophecy, there?
and Moria, she comes without her muff too, and there my invention
was lost.
HED. Well, I am resolved what I'll do.
ANA. What, my good spiritous spark?
HED. Marry, speak all the venom I can of him; and poison his
reputation in every place where I come.
ANA. 'Fore God, most courtly.
HED. And if I chance to be present where any question is made of
his sufficiencies, or of any thing he hath done private or public,
I'll censure it slightly, and ridiculously.
ANA. At any hand beware of that; so thou may'st draw thine own
judgment in suspect. No, I'll instruct thee what thou shalt do,
and by a safer means: approve any thing thou hearest of his, to the
received opinion of it; but if it be extraordinary, give it from
him to some other whom thou more particularly affect'st; that's the
way to plague him, and he shall never come to defend himself.
'Slud, I'll give out all he does is dictated from other men, and
swear it too, if thou'lt have me, and that I know the time and
place where he stole it, though my soul be guilty of no such thing;
and that I think, out of my heart, he hates such barren shifts: yet
to do thee a pleasure and him a disgrace, I'll damn myself, or do
any thing.
HED. Gramercy, my dear devil; we'll put it seriously in practice,
i'faith. [EXEUNT HEDON AND ANAIDES.]
CRI. [COMING FORWARD.]
Do, good Detraction, do, and I the while
Shall shake thy spight off with a careless smile.
Poor piteous gallants! what lean idle slights
Their thoughts suggest to flatter their starv'd hopes!
As if I knew not how to entertain
These straw-devices; but, of force must yield
To the weak stroke of their calumnious tongues.
What should I care what every dor doth buz
In credulous ears? It is a crown to me
That the best judgments can report me wrong'd;
Them liars; and their slanders impudent.
Perhaps, upon the rumour of their speeches,
Some grieved friend will whisper to me; Crites,
Men speak ill of thee. So they be ill men,
If they spake worse, 'twere better: for of such
To be dispraised, is the most perfect praise.
What can his censure hurt me, whom the world
Hath censured vile before me! If good Chrestus,
Euthus, or Phronimus, had spoke the words,
They would have moved me, and I should have call'd
My thoughts and actions to a strict account
Upon the hearing: but when I remember,
'Tis Hedon and Anaides, alas, then
I think but what they are, and am not stirr'd.
The one a light voluptuous reveller,
The other, a strange arrogating puff,
Both impudent, and ignorant enough;
That talk as they are wont, not as I merit;
Traduce by custom, as most dogs do bark,
Do nothing out of judgment, but disease,
Speak ill, because they never could speak well.
And who'd be angry with this race of creatures?
What wise physician have we ever seen
Moved with a frantic man? the same affects
That he doth bear to his sick patient,
Should a right mind carry to such as these;
And I do count it a most rare revenge,
That I can thus, with such a sweet neglect,
Pluck from them all the pleasure of their malice;
For that's the mark of all their enginous drifts,
To wound my patience, howso'er they seem
To aim at other objects; which if miss'd,
Their envy's like an arrow shot upright,
That, in the fall, endangers their own heads.
ENTER ARETE.
ARE. What, Crites! where have you drawn forth the day,
You have not visited your jealous friends?
CRI. Where I have seen, most honour'd Arete,
The strangest pageant, fashion'd like a court,
(At least I dreamt I saw it) so diffused,
So painted, pied, and full of rainbow strains;
As never yet, either by time, or place,
Was made the food to my distasted sense;
Nor can my weak imperfect memory
Now render half the forms unto my tongue,
That were convolved within this thrifty room.
Here stalks me by a proud and spangled sir,
That looks three handfuls higher then his foretop;
Savours himself alone, is only kind
And loving to himself; one that will speak
More dark and doubtful than six oracles!
Salutes a friend, as if he had a stitch;
Is his own chronicle, and scarce can eat
For regist'ring himself; is waited on
By mimics, jesters, panders, parasites,
And other such like prodigies of men.
He past, appears some mincing marmoset
Made all of clothes and face; his limbs so set
As if they had some voluntary act
Without man's motion, and must move just so
In spight of their creation: one that weighs
His breath between his teeth, and dares not smile
Beyond a point, for fear t'unstarch his look;
Hath travell'd to make legs, and seen the cringe
Of several courts, and courtiers; knows the time
Of giving titles, and of taking walls;
Hath read court common-places; made them his:
Studied the grammar of state, and all the rules
Each formal usher in that politic school
Can teach a man. A third comes, giving nods
To his repenting creditors, protests
To weeping suitors, takes the coming gold
Of insolent and base ambition,
That hourly rubs his dry and itchy palms;
Which griped, like burning coals, he hurls away
Into the laps of bawds, and buffoons' mouths.
With him there meets some subtle Proteus, one
Can change, and vary with all forms he sees;
Be any thing but honest; serves the time;
Hovers betwixt two factions, and explores
The drifts of both; which, with cross face, he bears
To the divided heads, and is received
With mutual grace of either: one that dares
Do deeds worthy the hurdle or the wheel,
To be thought somebody; and is in sooth
Such as the satirist points truly forth,
That only to his crimes owes all his worth.
ARE. You tell us wonders, Crites.
CRI. This is nothing.
There stands a neophite glazing of his face,
Pruning his clothes, perfuming of his hair,
Against his idol enters; and repeats,
Like an unperfect prologue, at third music,
His part of speeches, and confederate jests,
In passion to himself. Another swears
His scene of courtship over; bids, believe him,
Twenty times ere they will; anon, doth seem
As he would kiss away his hand in kindness;
Then walks off melancholic, and stands wreath'd,
As he were pinn'd up to the arras, thus.
A third is most in action, swims, and frisks,
Plays with his mistress's paps, salutes her pumps;
Adores her hems, her skirts, her knots, her curls,
Will spend his patrimony for a garter,
Or the least feather in her bounteous fan.
A fourth, he only comes in for a mute;
Divides the act with a dumb show, and exit.
Then must the ladies laugh, straight comes their scene,
A sixth times worse confusion then the rest.
Where you shall hear one talk of this man's eye,
Another of his lip, a third, his nose,
A fourth commend his leg, a fifth, his foot,
A sixth, his hand, and every one a limb;
That you would think the poor distorted gallant
Must there expire. Then fall they in discourse
Of tires, and fashions, how they must take place,
Where they may kiss, and whom, when to sit down,
And with what grace to rise; if they salute,
What court'sy they must use; such cobweb stuff
As would enforce the common'st sense abhor
Th' Arachnean workers.
ARE. Patience, gentle Crites.
This knot of spiders will be soon dissolved,
And all their webs swept out of Cynthia's court,
When once her glorious deity appears,
And but presents itself in her full light:
'Till when, go in, and spend your hours with us,
Your honour'd friends. Time and Phronesis,
In contemplation of our goddess' name.
Think on some sweet and choice invention now,
Worthy her serious and illustrious eyes,
That from the merit of it we may take
Desired occasion to prefer your worth,
And make your service known to Cynthia.
It is the pride of Arete to grace
Her studious lovers; and, in scorn of time,
Envy, and ignorance, to lift their state
Above a vulgar height. True happiness
Consists not in the multitude of friends,
But in their worth, and choice. Nor would I have
Virtue a popular regard pursue:
Let them be good that love me, though but few.
CRI. I kiss thy hands, divinest Arete,
And vow myself to thee, and Cynthia. [EXEUNT.]
SCENE III.—ANOTHER APARTMENT IN THE SAME.
ENTER AMORPHUS, FOLLOWED BY ASOTUS AND HIS TAILOR.
AMO. A little more forward: so, sir. Now go in, discloak
yourself, and come forth. [EXIT ASOTUS.] Tailor; bestow
thy absence upon us; and be not prodigal of this secret,
but to a dear customer.
[EXIT TAILOR.]
RE-ENTER ASOTUS.
'Tis well enter'd sir. Stay, you come on too fast; your pace is
too impetuous. Imagine this to be the palace of your pleasure, or
place where your lady is pleased to be seen. First you present
yourself, thus: and spying her, you fall off, and walk some two
turns; in which time, it is to be supposed, your passion hath
sufficiently whited your face, then, stifling a sigh or two, and
closing your lips, with a trembling boldness, and bold terror, you
advance yourself forward. Prove thus much, I pray you.
ASO. Yes, sir;—pray Jove I can light on it! Here I come in,
you say, and present myself?
AMO. Good.
ASO. And then I spy her, and walk off?
AMO. Very good.
ASO. Now, sir, I stifle, and advance forward?
AMO. Trembling.
ASO. Yes, sir, trembling; I shall do it better when I come to it.
And what must I speak now?
AMO. Marry, you shall say; "Dear Beauty", or "sweet Honour" (or by
what other title you please to remember her), "methinks you are
melancholy". This is, if she be alone now, and discompanied.
ASO. Well, sir, I'll enter again; her title shall be, "My dear
Lindabrides".
AMO. Lindabrides!
ASO. Ay, sir, the emperor Alicandroe's daughter, and the prince
Meridian's sister, in "the Knight of the Sun"; she should have been
married to him, but that the princess Claridiana—
AMO. O, you betray your reading.
ASO. Nay, sir, I have read history, I am a little humanitian.
Interrupt me not, good sir. "My dear Lindabrides,—my dear
Lindabrides,—my dear Lindabrides, methinks you are melancholy".
AMO. Ay, and take her by the rosy finger'd hand.
ASO. Must I so: O!—"My dear Lindabrides, methinks you are
melancholy".
AMO. Or thus sir. "All variety of divine pleasures, choice
sports, sweet music, rich fare, brave attire, soft beds, and silken
thoughts, attend this dear beauty."
ASO. Believe me, that's pretty. "All variety of divine pleasures,
choice sports, sweet music, rich fare, brave attire, soft beds, and
silken thoughts, attend this dear beauty."
AMO. And then, offering to kiss her hand, if she shall coily
recoil, and signify your repulse, you are to re-enforce yourself
with,
"More than most fair lady,
Let not the rigour of your just disdain
Thus coarsely censure of your servant's zeal."
And withal, protest her to be the only and absolute unparallel'd
creature you do adore, and admire, and respect, and reverence,
in this court, corner of the world, or kingdom.
ASO. This is hard, by my faith. I'll begin it all again.
AMO. Do so, and I will act it for your lady.
ASO. Will you vouchsafe, sir? "All variety of divine pleasures,
choice sports, sweet music, rich fare, brave attire, soft beds, and
silken thoughts, attend this dear beauty."
AMO. So sir, pray you, away.
ASO. "More than most fair lady,
Let not the rigour of your just disdain
Thus coarsely censure of your servant's zeal;
I protest you are the only and absolute unapparell'd—"
AMO. Unparallel'd.
ASO. "Unparallel'd creature, I do adore, and admire, and respect,
and reverence, in this corner of the world, or kingdom."
AMO. This is, if she abide you. But now, put the case she should
be passant when you enter, as thus: you are to frame your gait
thereafter, and call upon her, "lady, nymph, sweet refuge, star of
our court." Then, if she be guardant, here; you are to come on,
and, laterally disposing yourself, swear by her blushing and
well-coloured cheek, the bright dye of her hair, her ivory teeth,
(though they be ebony,) or some such white and innocent oath, to
induce you. If regardant, then maintain your station, brisk and
irpe, show the supple motion of your pliant body, but in chief of
your knee, and hand, which cannot but arride her proud humour
exceedingly.
ASO. I conceive you sir. I shall perform all these things in good
time, I doubt not, they do so hit me.
AMO. Well sir, I am your lady; make use of any of these
beginnings, or some other out of your own invention; and prove how
you can hold up, and follow it. Say, say.
ASO. Yes sir. "My dear Lindabrides."
AMO. No, you affect that Lindabrides too much; and let me tell you
it is not so courtly. Your pedant should provide you some parcels
of French, or some pretty commodity of Italian, to commence with,
if you would be exotic and exquisite.
ASO. Yes, sir, he was at my lodging t'other morning, I gave him a
doublet.
AMO. Double your benevolence, and give him the hose too; clothe
you his body, he will help to apparel your mind. But now, see what
your proper genius can perform alone, without adjection of any
other Minerva.
ASO. I comprehend you sir.
AMO. I do stand you, sir; fall back to your first place. Good,
passing well: very properly pursued.
ASO. "Beautiful, ambiguous, and sufficient lady, what! are you all
alone?"
AMO. "We would be, sir, if you would leave us."
ASO. "I am at your beauty's appointment, bright angel; but—"
AMO "What but?"
ASO. "No harm, more than most fair feature."
AMO. That touch relish'd well.
ASO. "But I protest—"
AMO. "And why should you protest?"
ASO. "For good will, dear esteem'd madam, and I hope your ladyship
will so conceive of it:
And will, in time, return from your disdain,
And rue the suff'rance of our friendly pain."
AMO. O, that piece was excellent! If you could pick out more of
these play-particles, and, as occasion shall salute you, embroider
or damask your discourse with them, persuade your soul, it would
most judiciously commend you. Come, this was a well-discharged and
auspicious bout. Prove the second.
ASO. "Lady, I cannot ruffle it in red and yellow."
AMO. "Why if you can revel it in white, sir, 'tis sufficient."
ASO. "Say you so, sweet lady! Lan, tede, de, de, de, dant, dant,
dant, dante. [SINGS AND DANCES.] No, in good faith, madam,
whosever told your ladyship so, abused you; but I would be glad to
meet your ladyship in a measure."
AMO. "Me sir! Belike you measure me by yourself, then?"
ASO. "Would I might, fair feature."
AMO. "And what were you the better, if you might?"
ASO. "The better it please you to ask, fair lady."
AMO. Why, this was ravishing, and most acutely continued. Well,
spend not your humour too much, you have now competently exercised
your conceit: this, once or twice a day, will render you an
accomplish'd, elaborate, and well-levell'd gallant. Convey in
your courting-stock, we will in the heat of this go visit the
nymphs' chamber.
ENTER AMORPHUS, FOLLOWED BY ASOTUS AND HIS TAILOR.
AMO. A little more forward: so, sir. Now go in, discloak
yourself, and come forth. [EXIT ASOTUS.] Tailor; bestow
thy absence upon us; and be not prodigal of this secret,
but to a dear customer.
[EXIT TAILOR.]
RE-ENTER ASOTUS.
'Tis well enter'd sir. Stay, you come on too fast; your pace is
too impetuous. Imagine this to be the palace of your pleasure, or
place where your lady is pleased to be seen. First you present
yourself, thus: and spying her, you fall off, and walk some two
turns; in which time, it is to be supposed, your passion hath
sufficiently whited your face, then, stifling a sigh or two, and
closing your lips, with a trembling boldness, and bold terror, you
advance yourself forward. Prove thus much, I pray you.
ASO. Yes, sir;—pray Jove I can light on it! Here I come in,
you say, and present myself?
AMO. Good.
ASO. And then I spy her, and walk off?
AMO. Very good.
ASO. Now, sir, I stifle, and advance forward?
AMO. Trembling.
ASO. Yes, sir, trembling; I shall do it better when I come to it.
And what must I speak now?
AMO. Marry, you shall say; "Dear Beauty", or "sweet Honour" (or by
what other title you please to remember her), "methinks you are
melancholy". This is, if she be alone now, and discompanied.
ASO. Well, sir, I'll enter again; her title shall be, "My dear
Lindabrides".
AMO. Lindabrides!
ASO. Ay, sir, the emperor Alicandroe's daughter, and the prince
Meridian's sister, in "the Knight of the Sun"; she should have been
married to him, but that the princess Claridiana—
AMO. O, you betray your reading.
ASO. Nay, sir, I have read history, I am a little humanitian.
Interrupt me not, good sir. "My dear Lindabrides,—my dear
Lindabrides,—my dear Lindabrides, methinks you are melancholy".
AMO. Ay, and take her by the rosy finger'd hand.
ASO. Must I so: O!—"My dear Lindabrides, methinks you are
melancholy".
AMO. Or thus sir. "All variety of divine pleasures, choice
sports, sweet music, rich fare, brave attire, soft beds, and silken
thoughts, attend this dear beauty."
ASO. Believe me, that's pretty. "All variety of divine pleasures,
choice sports, sweet music, rich fare, brave attire, soft beds, and
silken thoughts, attend this dear beauty."
AMO. And then, offering to kiss her hand, if she shall coily
recoil, and signify your repulse, you are to re-enforce yourself
with,
"More than most fair lady,
Let not the rigour of your just disdain
Thus coarsely censure of your servant's zeal."
And withal, protest her to be the only and absolute unparallel'd
creature you do adore, and admire, and respect, and reverence,
in this court, corner of the world, or kingdom.
ASO. This is hard, by my faith. I'll begin it all again.
AMO. Do so, and I will act it for your lady.
ASO. Will you vouchsafe, sir? "All variety of divine pleasures,
choice sports, sweet music, rich fare, brave attire, soft beds, and
silken thoughts, attend this dear beauty."
AMO. So sir, pray you, away.
ASO. "More than most fair lady,
Let not the rigour of your just disdain
Thus coarsely censure of your servant's zeal;
I protest you are the only and absolute unapparell'd—"
AMO. Unparallel'd.
ASO. "Unparallel'd creature, I do adore, and admire, and respect,
and reverence, in this corner of the world, or kingdom."
AMO. This is, if she abide you. But now, put the case she should
be passant when you enter, as thus: you are to frame your gait
thereafter, and call upon her, "lady, nymph, sweet refuge, star of
our court." Then, if she be guardant, here; you are to come on,
and, laterally disposing yourself, swear by her blushing and
well-coloured cheek, the bright dye of her hair, her ivory teeth,
(though they be ebony,) or some such white and innocent oath, to
induce you. If regardant, then maintain your station, brisk and
irpe, show the supple motion of your pliant body, but in chief of
your knee, and hand, which cannot but arride her proud humour
exceedingly.
ASO. I conceive you sir. I shall perform all these things in good
time, I doubt not, they do so hit me.
AMO. Well sir, I am your lady; make use of any of these
beginnings, or some other out of your own invention; and prove how
you can hold up, and follow it. Say, say.
ASO. Yes sir. "My dear Lindabrides."
AMO. No, you affect that Lindabrides too much; and let me tell you
it is not so courtly. Your pedant should provide you some parcels
of French, or some pretty commodity of Italian, to commence with,
if you would be exotic and exquisite.
ASO. Yes, sir, he was at my lodging t'other morning, I gave him a
doublet.
AMO. Double your benevolence, and give him the hose too; clothe
you his body, he will help to apparel your mind. But now, see what
your proper genius can perform alone, without adjection of any
other Minerva.
ASO. I comprehend you sir.
AMO. I do stand you, sir; fall back to your first place. Good,
passing well: very properly pursued.
ASO. "Beautiful, ambiguous, and sufficient lady, what! are you all
alone?"
AMO. "We would be, sir, if you would leave us."
ASO. "I am at your beauty's appointment, bright angel; but—"
AMO "What but?"
ASO. "No harm, more than most fair feature."
AMO. That touch relish'd well.
ASO. "But I protest—"
AMO. "And why should you protest?"
ASO. "For good will, dear esteem'd madam, and I hope your ladyship
will so conceive of it:
And will, in time, return from your disdain,
And rue the suff'rance of our friendly pain."
AMO. O, that piece was excellent! If you could pick out more of
these play-particles, and, as occasion shall salute you, embroider
or damask your discourse with them, persuade your soul, it would
most judiciously commend you. Come, this was a well-discharged and
auspicious bout. Prove the second.
ASO. "Lady, I cannot ruffle it in red and yellow."
AMO. "Why if you can revel it in white, sir, 'tis sufficient."
ASO. "Say you so, sweet lady! Lan, tede, de, de, de, dant, dant,
dant, dante. [SINGS AND DANCES.] No, in good faith, madam,
whosever told your ladyship so, abused you; but I would be glad to
meet your ladyship in a measure."
AMO. "Me sir! Belike you measure me by yourself, then?"
ASO. "Would I might, fair feature."
AMO. "And what were you the better, if you might?"
ASO. "The better it please you to ask, fair lady."
AMO. Why, this was ravishing, and most acutely continued. Well,
spend not your humour too much, you have now competently exercised
your conceit: this, once or twice a day, will render you an
accomplish'd, elaborate, and well-levell'd gallant. Convey in
your courting-stock, we will in the heat of this go visit the
nymphs' chamber.