Every Man out of his Humour, by Ben Jonson

But the patronage of the court failed in the days of King Charles, though Jonson was not without royal favours; and the old poet returned to the stage, producing, between 1625 and 1633, "The Staple of News," "The New Inn," "The Magnetic Lady," and "The Tale of a Tub," the last doubtless revised from a much earlier comedy. None of these plays met with any marked success, although the scathing generalisation of Dryden that designated them "Jonson's dotages" is unfair to their genuine merits. Thus the idea of an office for the gathering, proper dressing, and promulgation of news (wild flight of the fancy in its time) was an excellent subject for satire on the existing absurdities among newsmongers; although as much can hardly be said for "The Magnetic Lady," who, in her bounty, draws to her personages of differing humours to reconcile them in the end according to the alternative title, or "Humours Reconciled." These last plays of the old dramatist revert to caricature and the hard lines of allegory; the moralist is more than ever present, the satire degenerates into personal lampoon, especially of his sometime friend, Inigo Jones, who appears unworthily to have used his influence at court against the broken-down old poet. And now disease claimed Jonson, and he was bedridden for months. He had succeeded Middleton in 1628 as Chronologer to the City of London, but lost the post for not fulfilling its duties. King Charles befriended him, and even commissioned him to write still for the entertainment of the court; and he was not without the sustaining hand of noble patrons and devoted friends among the younger poets who were proud to be "sealed of the tribe of Ben."

Jonson died, August 6, 1637, and a second folio of his works, which he had been some time gathering, was printed in 1640, bearing in its various parts dates ranging from 1630 to 1642. It included all the plays mentioned in the foregoing paragraphs, excepting "The Case is Altered;" the masques, some fifteen, that date between 1617 and 1630; another collection of lyrics and occasional poetry called "Underwoods", including some further entertainments; a translation of "Horace's Art of Poetry" (also published in a vicesimo quarto in 1640), and certain fragments and ingatherings which the poet would hardly have included himself. These last comprise the fragment (less than seventy lines) of a tragedy called "Mortimer his Fall," and three acts of a pastoral drama of much beauty and poetic spirit, "The Sad Shepherd." There is also the exceedingly interesting "English Grammar" "made by Ben Jonson for the benefit of all strangers out of his observation of the English language now spoken and in use," in Latin and English; and "Timber, or Discoveries" "made upon men and matter as they have flowed out of his daily reading, or had their reflux to his peculiar notion of the times." The "Discoveries," as it is usually called, is a commonplace book such as many literary men have kept, in which their reading was chronicled, passages that took their fancy translated or transcribed, and their passing opinions noted. Many passages of Jonson's "Discoveries" are literal translations from the authors he chanced to be reading, with the reference, noted or not, as the accident of the moment prescribed. At times he follows the line of Macchiavelli's argument as to the nature and conduct of princes; at others he clarifies his own conception of poetry and poets by recourse to Aristotle. He finds a choice paragraph on eloquence in Seneca the elder and applies it to his own recollection of Bacon's power as an orator; and another on facile and ready genius, and translates it, adapting it to his recollection of his fellow-playwright, Shakespeare. To call such passages — which Jonson never intended for publication — plagiarism, is to obscure the significance of words. To disparage his memory by citing them is a preposterous use of scholarship. Jonson's prose, both in his dramas, in the descriptive comments of his masques, and in the "Discoveries," is characterised by clarity and vigorous directness, nor is it wanting in a fine sense of form or in the subtler graces of diction.

When Jonson died there was a project for a handsome monument to his memory. But the Civil War was at hand, and the project failed. A memorial, not insufficient, was carved on the stone covering his grave in one of the aisles of Westminster Abbey:

     Every Man in his Humour, 4to, 1601;
     The Case is Altered, 4to, 1609;
     Every Man out of his Humour, 4to, 1600;
     Cynthia's Revels, 4to, 1601;
     Poetaster, 4to, 1602;
     Sejanus, 4to, 1605;
     Eastward Ho (with Chapman and Marston), 4to, 1605;
     Volpone, 4to, 1607;
     Epicoene, or the Silent Woman, 4to, 1609 (?), fol., 1616;
     The Alchemist, 4to, 1612;
     Catiline, his Conspiracy, 4to, 1611;
     Bartholomew Fayre, 4to, 1614 (?), fol., 1631;
     The Divell is an Asse, fol., 1631;
     The Staple of Newes, fol., 1631;
     The New Sun, 8vo, 1631, fol., 1692;
     The Magnetic Lady, or Humours Reconcild, fol., 1640;
     A Tale of a Tub, fol., 1640;
     The Sad Shepherd, or a Tale of Robin Hood, fol., 1641;
     Mortimer his Fall (fragment), fol., 1640.

To Jonson have also been attributed additions to Kyd's Jeronymo, and collaboration in The Widow with Fletcher and Middleton, and in the Bloody Brother with Fletcher.

Epigrams, The Forrest, Underwoods, published in fols., 1616, 1640; Selections: Execration against Vulcan, and Epigrams, 1640; G. Hor. Flaccus his art of Poetry, Englished by Ben Jonson, 1640; Leges Convivialis, fol., 1692. Other minor poems first appeared in Gifford's edition of Works.

Timber, or Discoveries made upon Men and Matter, fol., 1641; The English Grammar, made by Ben Jonson for the benefit of Strangers, fol., 1640.

     Fol., 1616, volume. 2, 1640 (1631-41);
     fol., 1692, 1716-19, 1729;
     edited by P. Whalley, 7 volumes., 1756;
     by Gifford (with Memoir), 9 volumes., 1816, 1846;
     re-edited by F. Cunningham, 3 volumes., 1871;
     in 9 volumes., 1875;
     by Barry Cornwall (with Memoir), 1838;
     by B. Nicholson (Mermaid Series), with Introduction by
     C. H. Herford, 1893, etc.;
     Nine Plays, 1904;
     ed. H. C. Hart (Standard Library), 1906, etc;
     Plays and Poems, with Introduction by H. Morley (Universal
     Library), 1885;
     Plays (7) and Poems (Newnes), 1905;
     Poems, with Memoir by H. Bennett (Carlton Classics), 1907;
     Masques and Entertainments, ed. by H. Morley, 1890.

     J. A. Symonds, with Biographical and Critical Essay,
     (Canterbury Poets), 1886;
     Grosart, Brave Translunary Things, 1895;
     Arber, Jonson Anthology, 1901;
     Underwoods, Cambridge University Press, 1905;
     Lyrics (Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher), the Chap Books,
     No. 4, 1906;
     Songs (from Plays, Masques, etc.), with earliest known
     setting, Eragny Press, 1906.

     See Memoirs affixed to Works;
     J. A. Symonds (English Worthies), 1886;
     Notes of Ben Jonson Conversations with Drummond of Hawthornden;
     Shakespeare Society, 1842;
     ed. with Introduction and Notes by P. Sidney, 1906;
     Swinburne, A Study of Ben Jonson, 1889.

EVERY MAN OUT OF HIS HUMOUR

TO THE NOBLEST NURSERIES OF HUMANITY AND LIBERTY IN THE KINGDOM THE INNS OF COURT

I UNDERSTAND you, Gentlemen, not your houses: and a worthy succession of you, to all time, as being born the judges of these studies. When I wrote this poem, I had friendship with divers in your societies; who, as they were great names in learning, so they were no less examples of living. Of them, and then, that I say no more, it was not despised. Now that the printer, by a doubled charge, thinks it worthy a longer life than commonly the air of such things doth promise, I am careful to put it a servant to their pleasures, who are the inheritors of the first favour born it. Yet, I command it lie not in the way of your more noble and useful studies to the public: for so I shall suffer for it. But when the gown and cap is off, and the lord of liberty reigns, then, to take it in your hands, perhaps may make some bencher, tincted with humanity, read and not repent him.

    ASPER, the Presenter.
    MACILENTE.
    PUNTARVOLO, — his Lady. — Waiting Gent. — Huntsman. —
               Servingmen. — Dog and Cat.
    CARLO BUFFONE.
    FASTIDIOUS BRISK, — Cinedo, his Page.
    DELIRO, FALLACE, — Fido, their Servant. — Musicians.
    SAVIOLINA.
    SORDIDO. — His Hind.
    FUNGOSO. — Tailor, Haberdasher, Shoemaker
    SOGLIARDO.
    SHIFT. — Rustics.
    NOTARY.
    CLOVE, ORANGE. — A Groom. — Drawers. — Constable, and Officers.
    GREX. — CORDATUS — MITIS.

ASPER, he is of an ingenious and free spirit, eager and constant in reproof, without fear controlling the world's abuses. One whom no servile hope of gain, or frosty apprehension of danger, can make to be a parasite, either to time, place, or opinion.

MACILENTE, a man well parted, a sufficient scholar, and travail'd; who, wanting that place in the world's account which he thinks his merit capable of, falls into such an envious apoplexy, with which his judgment is so dazzled and distasted, that he grows violently impatient of any opposite happiness in another.

PUNTARVOLO, a vain-glorious knight, over-englishing his travels, and wholly consecrated to singularity; the very Jacob's staff of compliment; a sir that hath lived to see the revolution of time in most of his apparel. Of presence good enough, but so palpably affected to his own praise, that for want of flatterers he commends himself, to the floutage of his own family. He deals upon returns, and strange performances, resolving, in despite of public derision, to stick to his own fashion, phrase, and gesture.

CARLO BUFFONE, a public, scurrilous, and profane jester, that more swift than Circe, with absurd similes, will transform any person into deformity. A good feast-hound or banquet-beagle, that will scent you out a supper some three miles off, and swear to his patrons, damn him! he came in oars, when he was but wafted over in a sculler. A slave that hath an extraordinary gift in pleasing his palate, and will swill up more sack at a sitting than would make all the guard a posset. His religion is railing, and his discourse ribaldry.

FASTIDIOUS BRISK, a neat, spruce, affecting courtier, one that wears clothes well, and in fashion; practiseth by his glass how to salute; speaks good remnants, notwithstanding the base viol and tobacco; swears tersely and with variety; cares not what lady's favour he belies, or great man's familiarity: a good property to perfume the boot of a coach. He will borrow another man's horse to praise, and backs him as his own. Or, for a need, on foot can post himself into credit with his merchant, only with the gingle of his spur, and the jerk of his wand.

DELIRO, a good doting citizen, who, it is thought, might be of the common-council for his wealth; a fellow sincerely besotted on his own wife, and so wrapt with a conceit of her perfections, that he simply holds himself unworthy of her. And, in that hood-wink'd humour, lives more like a suitor than a husband; standing in as true dread of her displeasure, as when he first made love to her. He doth sacrifice two-pence in juniper to her every morning before she rises, and wakes her with villainous-out-of-tune music, which she out of her contempt (though not out of her judgment) is sure to dislike.

FALLACE, Deliro's wife, and idol; a proud mincing peat, and as perverse as he is officious. She dotes as perfectly upon the courtier, as her husband doth on her, and only wants the face to be dishonest.

SAVIOLINA, a court-lady, whose weightiest praise is a light wit, admired by herself, and one more, her servant Brisk.

SORDIDO, a wretched hob-nailed chuff, whose recreation is reading of almanacks; and felicity, foul weather. One that never pray'd but for a lean dearth, and ever wept in a fat harvest.

FUNGOSO, the son of Sordido, and a student; one that has revelled in his time, and follows the fashion afar off, like a spy. He makes it the whole bent of his endeavours to wring sufficient means from his wretched father, to put him in the courtiers' cut; at which he earnestly aims, but so unluckily, that he still lights short a suit.

SOGLIARDO, an essential clown, brother to Sordido, yet so enamoured of the name of a gentleman, that he will have it, though he buys it. He comes up every term to learn to take tobacco, and see new motions. He is in his kingdom when in company where he may be well laughed at.

SHIFT, a thread-bare shark; one that never was a soldier, yet lives upon lendings. His profession is skeldring and odling, his bank Paul's, and his warehouse Picthatch. Takes up single testons upon oaths, till doomsday. Falls under executions of three shillings, and enters into five-groat bonds. He way-lays the reports of services, and cons them without book, damning himself he came new from them, when all the while he was taking the diet in the bawdy-house, or lay pawned in his chamber for rent and victuals. He is of that admirable and happy memory, that he will salute one for an old acquaintance that he never saw in his life before. He usurps upon cheats, quarrels, and robberies, which he never did, only to get him a name. His chief exercises are, taking the whiff, squiring a cockatrice, and making privy searches for imparters.

CLOVE and ORANGE, an inseparable case of coxcombs, city born; the Gemini, or twins of foppery; that like a pair of wooden foils, are fit for nothing but to be practised upon. Being well flattered they'll lend money, and repent when they have done. Their glory is to invite players, and make suppers. And in company of better rank, to avoid the suspect of insufficiency, will inforce their ignorance most desperately, to set upon the understanding of any thing. Orange is the most humorous of the two, (whose small portion of juice being squeezed out,) Clove serves to stick him with commendations.

CORDATUS, the author's friend; a man inly acquainted with the scope and drift of his plot; of a discreet and understanding judgment; and has the place of a moderator.

   THE STAGE. After the second sounding.

   ENTER CORDATUS, ASPER, AND MITIS.

   COR. Nay, my dear Asper.

   MIT. Stay your mind.

   ASP. Away!
   Who is so patient of this impious world,
   That he can check his spirit, or rein his tongue?
   Or who hath such a dead unfeeling sense,
   That heaven's horrid thunders cannot wake?
   To see the earth crack'd with the weight of sin,
   Hell gaping under us, and o'er our heads
   Black, ravenous ruin, with her sail-stretch'd wings,
   Ready to sink us down, and cover us.
   Who can behold such prodigies as these,
   And have his lips seal'd up? Not I: my soul
   Was never ground into such oily colours,
   To flatter vice, and daub iniquity:
   But, with an armed and resolved hand,
   I'll strip the ragged follies of the time
   Naked as at their birth —

   COR. Be not too bold.

   ASP. You trouble me — and with a whip of steel,
   Print wounding lashes in their iron ribs.
   I fear no mood stamp'd in a private brow,
   When I am pleased t'unmask a public vice.
   I fear no strumpet's drugs, nor ruffian's stab,
   Should I detect their hateful luxuries:
   No broker's usurer's, or lawyer's gripe,
   Were I disposed to say, they are all corrupt.
   I fear no courtier's frown, should I applaud
   The easy flexure of his supple hams.
   Tut, these are so innate and popular,
   That drunken custom would not shame to laugh,
   In scorn, at him, that should but dare to tax 'em:
   And yet, not one of these, but knows his works,
   Knows what damnation is, the devil, and hell;
   Yet hourly they persist, grow rank in sin,
   Puffing their souls away in perjurous air,
   To cherish their extortion, pride, or lusts.

   MIT. Forbear, good Asper; be not like your name.

   ASP. O, but to such whose faces are all zeal,
   And, with the words of Hercules, invade
   Such crimes as these! that will not smell of sin,
   But seem as they were made of sanctity!
   Religion in their garments, and their hair
   Cut shorter than their eye-brows! when the conscience
   Is vaster than the ocean, and devours
   More wretches than the counters.

   MIT. Gentle Asper,
   Contain our spirits in more stricter bounds,
   And be not thus transported with the violence
   Of your strong thoughts.

   COX. Unless your breath had power,
   To melt the world, and mould it new again,
   It is in vain to spend it in these moods.

   ASP. [TURNING TO THE STAGE.]
   I not observed this thronged round till now!
   Gracious and kind spectators, you are welcome;
   Apollo and Muses feast your eyes
   With graceful objects, and may our Minerva
   Answer your hopes, unto their largest strain!
   Yet here mistake me not, judicious friends;
   I do not this, to beg your patience,
   Or servilely to fawn on your applause,
   Like some dry brain, despairing in his merit.
   Let me be censured by the austerest brow,
   Where I want art or judgment, tax me freely.
   Let envious censors, with their broadest eyes,
   Look through and through me, I pursue no favour;
   Only vouchsafe me your attentions,
   And I will give you music worth your ears.
   O, how I hate the monstrousness of time,
   Where every servile imitating spirit,
   Plagued with an itching leprosy of wit,
   In a mere halting fury, strives to fling
   His ulcerous body in the Thespian spring,
   And straight leaps forth a poet! but as lame
   As Vulcan, or the founder of Cripplegate.

   MIT. In faith this humour will come ill to some,
   You will be thought to be too peremptory.

   ASP. This humour? good! and why this humour, Mitis?
   Nay, do not turn, but answer.

   MIT. Answer, what?

   ASP. I will not stir your patience, pardon me,
   I urged it for some reasons, and the rather
   To give these ignorant well-spoken days
   Some taste of their abuse of this word humour.

   COR. O, do not let your purpose fall, good Asper;
   It cannot but arrive most acceptable,
   Chiefly to such as have the happiness
   Daily to see how the poor innocent word
   Is rack'd and tortured.

   MIT. Ay, I pray you proceed.

   ASP. Ha, what? what is't?

   COR. For the abuse of humour.

   ASP. O, I crave pardon, I had lost my thoughts.
   Why humour, as 'tis 'ens', we thus define it,
   To be a quality of air, or water,
   And in itself holds these two properties,
   Moisture and fluxure: as, for demonstration,
   Pour water on this floor, 'twill wet and run:
   Likewise the air, forced through a horn or trumpet,
   Flows instantly away, and leaves behind
   A kind of dew; and hence we do conclude,
   That whatsoe'er hath fluxure and humidity,
   As wanting power to contain itself,
   Is humour. So in every human body,
   The choler, melancholy, phlegm, and blood,
   By reason that they flow continually
   In some one part, and are not continent,
   Receive the name of humours. Now thus far
   It may, by metaphor, apply itself
   Unto the general disposition:
   As when some one peculiar quality
   Doth so possess a man, that it doth draw
   All his affects, his spirits, and his powers,
   In their confluctions, all to run one way,
   This may be truly said to be a humour
   But that a rook, by wearing a pyed feather,
   The cable hat-band, or the three-piled ruff,
   A yard of shoe-tye, or the Switzer's knot
   On his French garters, should affect a humour!
   O, it is more than most ridiculous.

   COR. He speaks pure truth; now if an idiot
   Have but an apish or fantastic strain,
   It is his humour.

   ASP. Well, I will scourge those apes,
   And to these courteous eyes oppose a mirror,
   As large as is the stage whereon we act;
   Where they shall see the time's deformity
   Anatomised in every nerve, and sinew,
   With constant courage, and contempt of fear.

   MIT. Asper, (I urge it as your friend,) take heed,
   The days are dangerous, full of exception,
   And men are grown impatient of reproof.

   ASP. Ha, ha!
   You might as well have told me, yond' is heaven,
   This earth, these men, and all had moved alike. —
   Do not I know the time's condition?
   Yes, Mitis, and their souls; and who they be
   That either will or can except against me.
   None but a sort of fools, so sick in taste,
   That they contemn all physic of the mind,
   And like gall'd camels, kick at every touch.
   Good men, and virtuous spirits, that loath their vices,
   Will cherish my free labours, love my lines,
   And with the fervour of their shining grace
   Make my brain fruitful, to bring forth more objects,
   Worthy their serious and intentive eyes.
   But why enforce I this? as fainting? no.
   If any here chance to behold himself,
   Let him not dare to challenge me of wrong;
   For, if he shame to have his follies known,
   First he should shame to act 'em: my strict hand
   Was made to seize on vice, and with a gripe
   Squeeze out the humour of such spongy souls,
   As lick up every idle vanity.

   COR. Why, this is right furor poeticus!
   Kind gentlemen, we hope your patience
   Will yet conceive the best, or entertain
   This supposition, that a madman speaks.

   ASP. What, are you ready there? Mitis, sit down,
   And my Cordatus. Sound ho! and begin.
   I leave you two, as censors, to sit here:
   Observe what I present, and liberally
   Speak your opinions upon every scene,
   As it shall pass the view of these spectators.
   Nay, now y'are tedious, sirs; for shame begin.
   And, Mitis, note me; if in all this front
   You can espy a gallant of this mark,
   Who, to be thought one of the judicious,
   Sits with his arms thus wreath'd, his hat pull'd here,
   Cries mew, and nods, then shakes his empty head,
   Will shew more several motions in his face
   Than the new London, Rome, or Niniveh,
   And, now and then, breaks a dry biscuit jest,
   Which, that it may more easily be chew'd,
   He steeps in his own laughter.

   COR. Why, will that
   Make it be sooner swallowed?

   ASP. O, assure you.
   Or if it did not, yet as Horace sings,
   Mean cates are welcome still to hungry guests.

   COR. 'Tis true; but why should we observe them, Asper?

   ASP. O, I would know 'em; for in such assemblies
   They are more infectious than the pestilence:
   And therefore I would give them pills to purge,
   And make them fit for fair societies.
   How monstrous and detested is't to see
   A fellow that has neither art nor brain,
   Sit like an Aristarchus, or start ass,
   Taking men's lines with a tobacco face,
   In snuff still spitting, using his wry'd looks,
   In nature of a vice, to wrest and turn
   The good aspect of those that shall sit near him,
   From what they do behold! O, 'tis most vile.

   MIT. Nay, Asper.

   ASP. Peace, Mitis, I do know your thought;
   You'll say, your guests here will except at this:
   Pish! you are too timorous, and full of doubt.
   Then he, a patient, shall reject all physic,
   'Cause the physician tells him, you are sick:
   Or, if I say, that he is vicious,
   You will not hear of virtue. Come, you are fond.
   Shall I be so extravagant, to think,
   That happy judgments, and composed spirits,
   Will challenge me for taxing such as these?
   I am ashamed.

   COR. Nay, but good, pardon us;
   We must not bear this peremptory sail,
   But use our best endeavours how to please.

   ASP. Why, therein I commend your careful thoughts,
   And I will mix with you in industry
   To please: but whom? attentive auditors,
   Such as will join their profit with their pleasure,
   And come to feed their understanding parts:
   For these I'll prodigally spread myself,
   And speak away my spirit into air;
   For these, I'll melt my brain into invention,
   Coin new conceits, and hang my richest words
   As polish'd jewels in their bounteous ears?
   But stay, I lose myself, and wrong their patience:
   If I dwell here, they'll not begin, I see.
   Friends, sit you still, and entertain this troop
   With some familiar and by-conference,
   I'll hast them sound. Now, gentlemen, I go
   To turn an actor, and a humorist,
   Where, ere I do resume my present person,
   We hope to make the circles of your eyes
   Flow with distilled laughter: if we fail,
   We must impute it to this only chance,
   Art hath an enemy call'd ignorance.
   [EXIT.

   COR. How do you like his spirit, Mitis?

   MIT. I should like it much better, if he were less confident.

   COR. Why, do you suspect his merit?

   MIT. No; but I fear this will procure him much envy.

   COR. O, that sets the stronger seal on his desert: if he had no enemies,
   I should esteem his fortunes most wretched at this instant.

   MIT. You have seen his play, Cordatus: pray you, how is it?

   COR. Faith, sir, I must refrain to judge; only this I can say of it, 'tis
   strange, and of a particular kind by itself, somewhat like 'Vetus
   Comoedia'; a work that hath bounteously pleased me; how it will answer the
   general expectation, I know not.

   MIT. Does he observe all the laws of comedy in it?

   COR. What laws mean you?

   MIT. Why, the equal division of it into acts and scenes, according to the
   Terentian manner; his true number of actors; the furnishing of the scene
   with Grex or Chorus, and that the whole argument fall within compass of a
   day's business.

   COR. O no, these are too nice observations.

   MIT. They are such as must be received, by your favour, or it cannot be
   authentic.

   COR. Troth, I can discern no such necessity.

   MIT. No!

   COR. No, I assure you, signior. If those laws you speak of had been
   delivered us 'ab initio', and in their present virtue and perfection, there
   had been some reason of obeying their powers; but 'tis extant, that that
   which we call 'Comoedia', was at first nothing but a simple and continued
   song, sung by one only person, till Susario invented a second; after him,
   Epicharmus a third; Phormus and Chionides devised to have four actors, with
   a prologue and chorus; to which Cratinus, long after, added a fifth and
   sixth: Eupolis, more; Aristophanes, more than they; every man in the
   dignity of his spirit and judgment supplied something. And, though that in
   him this kind of poem appeared absolute, and fully perfect, yet how is the
   face of it changed since, in Menander, Philemon, Cecilius, Plautus, and the
   rest! who have utterly excluded the chorus, altered the property of the
   persons, their names, and natures, and augmented it with all liberty,
   according to the elegancy and disposition of those times wherein they
   wrote. I see not then, but we should enjoy the same license, or free power
   to illustrate and heighten our invention, as they did; and not be tied to
   those strict and regular forms which the niceness of a few, who are nothing
   but form, would thrust upon us.

   MIT. Well, we will not dispute of this now; but what's his scene?

   COR. Marry, 'Insula Fortunata', sir.

   MIT. O, the Fortunate Island: mass, he has bound himself to a strict law
   there.

   COR. Why so?

   MIT. He cannot lightly alter the scene, without crossing the seas.

   COR. He needs not, having a whole island to run through, I think.

   MIT. No! how comes it then, that in some one play we see so many seas,
   countries, and kingdoms, passed over with such admirable dexterity?

   COR. O, that but shews how well the authors can travel in their vocation,
   and outrun the apprehension of their auditory. But, leaving this, I would
   they would begin at once: this protraction is able to sour the
   best-settled patience in the theatre.
   [THE THIRD SOUNDING.

   MIT. They have answered your wish, sir; they sound.

   COR. O, here comes the Prologue.
   [ENTER PROLOGUE.
   Now, sir, if you had staid a little longer, I meant to have spoke your
   prologue for you i'faith.

   PROL. Marry, with all my heart, sir, you shall do it yet, and I thank you.
   [GOING.

   COR. Nay, nay, stay, stay; hear you?

   PROL. You could not have studied to have done me a greater benefit at the
   instant; for I protest to you, I am unperfect, and, had I spoke it, I must
   of necessity have been out.

   COR. Why, but do you speak this seriously?

   PROL. Seriously! ay, wit's my help, do I; and esteem myself indebted to
   your kindness for it.

   COR. For what?

   PROL. Why, for undertaking the prologue for me.

   COR. How! did I undertake it for you?

   PROL. Did you! I appeal to all these gentlemen, whether you did or no.
   Come, come, it pleases you to cast a strange look on't now; but 'twill not
   serve.

   COR. 'Fore me, but it must serve; and therefore speak your prologue.

   PROL. An I do, let me die poisoned with some venomous hiss, and never live
   to look as high as the two-penny room again.
   [EXIT.

   MIT. He has put you to it, sir.

   COR. 'Sdeath, what a humorous fellow is this! Gentlemen, good faith I can
   speak no prologue, howsoever his weak wit has had the fortune to make this
   strong use of me here before you: but I protest —

   [ENTER CARLO BUFFONE, FOLLOWED BY A BOY WITH WINE.
   CAR. Come, come, leave these fustian protestations; away, come, I cannot
   abide these grey-headed ceremonies. Boy, fetch me a glass quickly, I may
   bid these gentlemen welcome; give them a health here. [EXIT BOY.] I
   mar'le whose wit it was to put a prologue in yond' sackbut's mouth; they
   might well think he'd be out of tune, and yet you'd play upon him too.

   COR. Hang him, dull block!

   CAR. O, good words, good words; a well-timber'd fellow, he would have made
   a good column, an he had been thought on, when the house was a building —
   [RE-ENTER BOY WITH GLASSES..
   O, art thou come? Well said; give me, boy; fill so! Here's a cup of wine
   sparkles like a diamond. Gentlewomen (I am sworn to put them in first) and
   gentlemen, around, in place of a bad prologue, I drink this good draught to
   your health here, Canary, the very elixir and spirit of wine. [DRINKS.]
   This is that our poet calls Castalian liquor, when he comes abroad now and
   then, once in a fortnight, and makes a good meal among players, where he
   has 'caninum appetitum'; marry, at home he keeps a good philosophical diet,
   beans and butter-milk; an honest pure rogue, he will take you off three,
   four, five of these, one after another, and look villainously when he has
   done, like a one-headed Cerberus. — He does not hear me, I hope. — And
   then, when his belly is well ballaced, and his brain rigged a little, he
   snails away withal, as though he would work wonders when he comes home. He
   has made a play here, and he calls it, 'Every Man out of his Humour': but
   an he get me out of the humour he has put me in, I'll trust none of his
   tribe again while I live. Gentles, all I can say for him is, you are
   welcome. I could wish my bottle here amongst you; but there's an old rule,
   No pledging your own health. Marry, if any here be thirsty for it, their
   best way (that I know) is, sit still, seal up their lips, and drink so much
   of the play in at their ears.
   [EXIT.

   MIT. What may this fellow be, Cordatus?

   COR. Faith, if the time will suffer his description, I'll give it you. He
   is one, the author calls him Carlo Buffone, an impudent common jester, a
   violent railer, and an incomprehensible epicure; one whose company is
   desired of all men, but beloved of none; he will sooner lose his soul than
   a jest, and profane even the most holy things, to excite laughter: no
   honourable or reverend personage whatsoever can come within the reach of
   his eye, but is turned into all manner of variety, by his adulterate
   similes.

   MIT. You paint forth a monster.

   COR. He will prefer all countries before his native, and thinks he can
   never sufficiently, or with admiration enough, deliver his affectionate
   conceit of foreign atheistical policies. But stay —
   [ENTER MACILENTE.
   Observe these: he'll appear himself anon.

   MIT. O, this is your envious man, Macilente, I think.

   COR. The same, sir.

ACT I

   SCENE I. — The Country.

   ENTER MACILENTE, WITH A BOOK.

   MACI. "Viri est, fortunae caecitatem facile ferre."
   'Tis true; but, Stoic, where, in the vast world,
   Doth that man breathe, that can so much command
   His blood and his affection? Well, I see
   I strive in vain to cure my wounded soul;
   For every cordial that my thoughts apply
   Turns to a corsive and doth eat it farther.
   There is no taste in this philosophy;
   'Tis like a potion that a man should drink,
   But turns his stomach with the sight of it.
   I am no such pill'd Cynick to believe,
   That beggary is the only happiness;
   Or with a number of these patient fools,
   To sing: "My mind to me a kingdom is,"
   When the lank hungry belly barks for food,
   I look into the world, and there I meet
   With objects, that do strike my blood-shot eyes
   Into my brain: where, when I view myself,
   Having before observ'd this man is great,
   Mighty and fear'd; that lov'd and highly favour'd:
   A third thought wise and learn'd; a fourth rich,
   And therefore honour'd; a fifth rarely featur'd;
   A sixth admired for his nuptial fortunes:
   When I see these, I say, and view myself,
   I wish the organs of my sight were crack'd;
   And that the engine of my grief could cast
   Mine eyeballs, like two globes of wildfire, forth,
   To melt this unproportion'd frame of nature.
   Oh, they are thoughts that have transfix'd my heart,
   And often, in the strength of apprehension,
   Made my cold passion stand upon my face,
   Like drops of dew on a stiff cake of ice.

   COR. This alludes well to that of the poet,
   "Invidus suspirat, gemit, incutitque dentes,
   Sudat frigidus, intuens quod odit."

   MIT. O, peace, you break the scene.

   [ENTER SOGLIARDO AND CARLO BUFFONE.

   MACI. Soft, who be these?
   I'll lay me down awhile till they be past.
   [LIES DOWN.

   CAR. Signior, note this gallant, I pray you.

   MIT. What is he?

   CAR. A tame rook, you'll take him presently; list.

   SOG. Nay, look you, Carlo; this is my humour now! I have land and money,
   my friends left me well, and I will be a gentleman whatsoever it cost me.

   CAR. A most gentlemanlike resolution.

   SOG. Tut! an I take an humour of a thing once, I am like your tailor's
   needle, I go through: but, for my name, signior, how think you? will it
   not serve for a gentleman's name, when the signior is put to it, ha?

   CAR. Let me hear; how is it?

   SOG. Signior Insulso Sogliardo: methinks it sounds well.

   CAR. O excellent! tut! an all fitted to your name, you might very well
   stand for a gentleman: I know many Sogliardos gentlemen.

   SOG. Why, and for my wealth I might be a justice of peace.

   CAR. Ay, and a constable for your wit.

   SOG. All this is my lordship you see here, and those farms you came by.

   CAR. Good steps to gentility too, marry: but, Sogliardo, if you affect to
   be a gentleman indeed, you must observe all the rare qualities, humours,
   and compliments of a gentleman.

   SOG. I know it, signior, and if you please to instruct, I am not too good
   to learn, I'll assure you.

   CAR. Enough, sir. — I'll make admirable use in the projection of my
   medicine upon this lump of copper here. [ASIDE] — I'll bethink me for
   you, sir.

   SOG. Signior, I will both pay you, and pray you, and thank you, and think
   on you.

   COR. Is this not purely good?

   MACI. S'blood, why should such a prick-ear'd hind as this
   Be rich, ha? a fool! such a transparent gull
   That may be seen through! wherefore should he have land,
   Houses, and lordships? O, I could eat my entrails,
   And sink my soul into the earth with sorrow.

   CAR. First, to be an accomplished gentleman, that is, a gentleman of the
   time, you must give over housekeeping in the country, and live altogether
   in the city amongst gallants: where, at your first appearance, 'twere good
   you turn'd four or five hundred acres of your best land into two or three
   trunks of apparel — you may do it without going to a conjurer — and be
   sure you mix yourself still with such as flourish in the spring of the
   fashion, and are least popular; study their carriage and behaviour in all;
   learn to play at primero and passage, and ever (when you lose) have two or
   three peculiar oaths to swear by, that no man else swears: but, above all,
   protest in your play, and affirm, "Upon your credit, As you are a true
   gentleman", at every cast; you may do it with a safe conscience, I warrant you.

   SOG. O admirable rare! he cannot choose but be a gentleman that has these
   excellent gifts: more, more, I beseech you.

   CAR. You must endeavour to feed cleanly at your ordinary, sit melancholy,
   and pick your teeth when you cannot speak: and
   when you come to plays, be humorous, look with a good starch'd face, and
   ruffle your brow like a new boot, laugh at nothing but your own jests, or
   else as the noblemen laugh. That's a special grace you must observe.

   SAG. I warrant you, sir.

   CAR. Ay, and sit on the stage and flout, provided you have a good suit.

   SOG. O, I'll have a suit only for that, sir.

   CAR. You must talk much of your kindred and allies.

   SOG. Lies! no, signior, I shall not need to do so, I have kindred in the
   city to talk of: I have a niece is a merchant's wife; and a nephew, my
   brother Sordido's son, of the Inns of court.

   CAR. O, but you must pretend alliance with courtiers and great persons:
   and ever when you are to dine or sup in any strange presence, hire a fellow
   with a great chain, (though it be copper, it's no matter,) to bring you
   letters, feign'd from such a nobleman, or such a knight, or such a lady,
   "To their worshipful, right rare, and nobly qualified friend and kinsman,
   signior Insulso Sogliardo": give yourself style enough. And there, while
   you intend circumstances of news, or enquiry of their health, or so, one of
   your familiars whom you must carry about you still, breaks it up, as 'twere
   in a jest, and reads it publicly at the table: at which you must seem to
   take as unpardonable offence, as if he had torn your mistress's colours, or
   breath'd upon her picture, and pursue it with that hot grace, as if you
   would advance a challenge upon it presently.

   SOG. Stay, I do not like that humour of challenge, it may be accepted; but
   I'll tell you what's my humour now, I will do this: I will take occasion
   of sending one of my suits to the tailor's, to have the pocket repaired, or
   so; and there such a letter as you talk of, broke open and all shall be
   left; O, the tailor will presently give out what I am, upon the reading of
   it, worth twenty of your gallants.

   CAR. But then you must put on an extreme face of discontentment at your
   man's negligence.

   SOG. O, so I will, and beat him too: I'll have a man for the purpose.

   MAC. You may; you have land and crowns: O partial fate!

   CAR. Mass, well remember'd, you must keep your men gallant at the first,
   fine pied liveries laid with good gold lace; there's no loss in it, they
   may rip it off and pawn it when they lack victuals.

   SOG. By 'r Lady, that is chargeable, signior, 'twill bring a man in debt.

   CAR. Debt! why that's the more for your credit, sir: it's an excellent
   policy to owe much in these days, if you note it.

   SOG. As how, good signior? I would fain be a politician.

   CAR. O! look where you are indebted any great sum, your creditor observes
   you with no less regard, than if he were bound to you for some huge
   benefit, and will quake to give you the least cause of offence, lest he
   lose his money. I assure you, in these
   times, no man has his servant more obsequious and pliant, than gentlemen
   their creditors: to whom, if at any time you pay but a moiety, or a fourth
   part, it comes more acceptably than if you gave them a new-year's gift.

   SOG. I perceive you, sir: I will take up, and bring myself in credit, sure.

   CAR. Marry this, always beware you commerce not with bankrupts, or poor
   needy Ludgathians; they are impudent creatures, turbulent spirits, they
   care not what violent tragedies they stir, nor how they play fast and loose
   with a poor gentleman's fortunes, to get their own. Marry, these rich
   fellows that have the world, or the better part of it, sleeping in their
   counting-houses, they are ten times more placable, they; either fear, hope,
   or modesty, restrains them from offering any outrages: but this is nothing
   to your followers, you shall not run a penny more in arrearage for them, an
   you list, yourself.

   SOG. No! how should I keep 'em then?

   CAR. Keep 'em! 'sblood, let them keep themselves, they are no sheep, are
   they? what, you shall come in houses, where plate, apparel, jewels, and
   divers other pretty commodities lie negligently scattered, and I would have
   those Mercuries follow me, I trow, should remember they had not their
   fingers for nothing.

   SOG. That's not so good, methinks.

   CAR. Why, after you have kept them a fortnight, or so, and shew'd them
   enough to the world, you may turn them away, and keep no more but a boy,
   it's enough.

   SOG. Nay, my humour is not for boys, I'll keep men, an I keep any; and
   I'll give coats, that's my humour: but I lack a cullisen.

   CAR. Why, now you ride to the city, you may buy one; I'll bring you where
   you shall have your choice for money.

   SOG. Can you, sir?

   CAR. O, ay: you shall have one take measure of you, and make you a coat
   of arms to fit you, of what fashion you will.

   SOG. By word of mouth, I thank you, signior; I'll be once a little
   prodigal in a humour, i'faith, and have a most prodigious coat.

   MAC. Torment and death! break head and brain at once,
   To be deliver'd of your fighting issue.
   Who can endure to see blind Fortune dote thus?
   To be enamour'd on this dusty turf,
   This clod, a whoreson puck-fist! O G——!
   I could run wild with grief now, to behold
   The rankness of her bounties, that doth breed
   Such bulrushes; these mushroom gentlemen,
   That shoot up in a night to place and worship.

   CAR. [SEEING MACILENTE.] Let him alone; some stray, some stray.

   SOG. Nay, I will examine him before I go, sure.

   CAR. The lord of the soil has all wefts and strays here, has he not?

   SOG. Yes, sir.

   CAR. Faith then I pity the poor fellow, he's fallen into a fool's hands.
   [ASIDE.

   SOG. Sirrah, who gave you a commission to lie in my lordship?

   MAC. Your lordship!

   SOG. How! my lordship? do you know me, sir?

   MAC. I do know you, sir.

   CAR. He answers him like an echo.
   [ASIDE.

   SOG. Why, Who am I, sir?

   MAC. One of those that fortune favours.

   CAR. The periphrasis of a fool. I'll observe this better.
   [ASIDE.

   SOG. That fortune favours! how mean you that, friend?

   MAC. I mean simply: that you are one that lives not by your wits.

   SOG. By my wits! no sir, I scorn to live by my wits, I. I have better
   means, I tell thee, than to take such base courses, as to live by my wits.
   What, dost thou think I live by my wits?

   MAC. Methinks, jester, you should not relish this well.

   CAR. Ha! does he know me?

   MAC. Though yours be the worst use a man can put his wit to, of thousands,
   to prostitute it at every tavern and ordinary; yet, methinks, you should
   have turn'd your broadside at this, and have been ready with an apology,
   able to sink this hulk of ignorance into the bottom and depth of his
   contempt.

   CAR. Oh, 'tis Macilente! Signior, you are well encountered; how is it?
   O, we must not regard what he says, man, a trout, a shallow fool, he has no
   more brain than a butterfly, a mere stuft suit; he looks like a musty
   bottle new wicker'd, his head's the cork, light, light! [ASIDE TO
   MACILENTE.] — I am glad to see you so well return'd, signior.

   MAC. You are! gramercy, good Janus.

   SOG. Is he one of your acquaintance? I love him the better for that.

   CAR. Od's precious, come away, man, what do you mean? an you knew him as
   I do, you'd shun him as you would do the plague.

   SOG. Why, sir?

   CAR. O, he's a black fellow, take heed of him.

   SOG. Is he a scholar, or a soldier?

   CAR. Both, both; a lean mongrel, he looks as if he were chop-fallen, with
   barking at other men's good fortunes: 'ware how you offend him; he carries
   oil and fire in his pen, will scald where it drops: his spirit is like
   powder, quick, violent; he'll blow a man up with a jest: I fear him worse
   than a rotten wall does the cannon; shake an hour after at the report.
   Away, come not near him.

   SOG. For God's sake let's be gone; an he be a scholar, you know I cannot
   abide him; I had as lieve see a cockatrice, specially as cockatrices go now.

   CAR. What, you'll stay, signior? this gentleman Sogliardo, and I, are to
   visit the knight Puntarvolo, and from thence to the city; we shall meet there.
   [EXIT WITH SOGLIARDO.

   MAC. Ay, when I cannot shun you, we will meet.
   'Tis strange! of all the creatures I have seen,
   I envy not this Buffone, for indeed
   Neither his fortunes nor his parts deserve it:
   But I do hate him, as I hate the devil,
   Or that brass-visaged monster Barbarism.
   O, 'tis an open-throated, black-mouth'd cur,
   That bites at all, but eats on those that feed him.
   A slave, that to your face will, serpent-like,
   Creep on the ground, as he would eat the dust,
   And to your back will turn the tail, and sting
   More deadly than the scorpion: stay, who's this?
   Now, for my soul, another minion
   Of the old lady Chance's! I'll observe him.

   [ENTER SORDIDO WITH AN ALMANACK IN HIS HAND.
   SORD. O rare! good, good, good, good, good!
   I thank my stars, I thank my stars for it.

   MAC. Said I not true? doth not his passion speak
   Out of my divination? O my senses,
   Why lost you not your powers, and become
   Dull'd, if not deaded, with this spectacle?
   I know him, it is Sordido, the farmer,
   A boor, and brother to that swine was here.
   [ASIDE.

   SORD. Excellent, excellent, excellent! as I would wish, as I would wish.

   MAC. See how the strumpet fortune tickles him,
   And makes him swoon with laughter, O, O, O!

   SORD. Ha, ha, ha! I will not sow my grounds this year. Let me see, what
   harvest shall we have? "June, July?"

   MAC. What, is't a prognostication raps him so?

   SORD. "The 20, 21, 22 days, rain and wind." O good, good! "the 23, and
   24, rain and some wind," good! "the 25, rain," good still! "26, 27, 28,
   wind and some rain"; would it had been rain and some wind! well, 'tis
   good, when it can be no better. "29, inclining to rain": inclining to
   rain! that's not so good now: "30, and 31, wind and no rain": no rain!
   'slid, stay: this is worse and worse: What says he of St. Swithin's?
   turn back, look, "saint Swithin's: no rain!"

   MAC. O, here's a precious, dirty, damned rogue,
   That fats himself with expectation
   Of rotten weather, and unseason'd hours;
   And he is rich for it, an elder brother!
   His barns are full, his ricks and mows well trod,
   His garners crack with store! O, 'tis well; ha, ha, ha!
   A plague consume thee, and thy house!

   SORD. O here, "St. Swithin's, the 15 day, variable weather, for the most
   part rain", good! "for the most part rain": why, it should rain forty
   days after, now, more or less, it was a rule held, afore I was able to hold
   a plough, and yet here are two days no rain; ha! it makes me muse. We'll
   see how the next month begins, if that be better. "August 1, 2, 3, and 4,
   days, rainy and blustering:" this is well now: "5, 6, 7, 8, and 9, rainy,
   with some thunder;" Ay marry, this is excellent; the other was false
   printed sure: "the 10 and 11, great store of rain"; O good, good, good,
   good, good! "the 12, 13, and 14 days, rain"; good still: "15, and 16,
   rain"; good still: "17 and 18, rain", good still: "19 and 20", good
   still, good still, good still, good still, good still! "21, some rain";
   some rain! well, we must be patient, and attend the heaven's pleasure,
   would it were more though: "the 22, 23, great tempests of rain, thunder
   and lightning".
   O good again, past expectation good!
   I thank my blessed angel; never, never
   Laid I [a] penny better out than this,
   To purchase this dear book: not dear for price,
    And yet of me as dearly prized as life,
   Since in it is contain'd the very life,
   Blood, strength, and sinews, of my happiness.
   Blest be the hour wherein I bought this book;
   His studies happy that composed the book,
   And the man fortunate that sold the book!
   Sleep with this charm, and be as true to me,
   As I am joy'd and confident in thee
   [PUTS IT UP.

   [ENTER A HIND, AND GIVES SORDIDO A PAPER TO READ.
   MAC. Ha, ha, ha!
   Is not this good? Is not pleasing this?
   Ha, ha, ha! God pardon me! ha, ha!
   Is't possible that such a spacious villain
   Should live, and not be plagued? or lies be hid
   Within the wrinkled bosom of the world,
   Where Heaven cannot see him? S'blood! methinks
   'Tis rare, and strange, that he should breathe and walk,
   Feed with digestion, sleep, enjoy his health,
   And, like a boisterous whale swallowing the poor,
   Still swim in wealth and pleasure! is't not strange?
   Unless his house and skin were thunder proof,
   I wonder at it! Methinks, now, the hectic,
   Gout, leprosy, or some such loath'd disease,
   Might light upon him; of that fire from heaven
   Might fall upon his barns; or mice and rats
   Eat up his grain; or else that it might rot
   Within the hoary ricks, even as it stands:
   Methinks this might be well; and after all
   The devil might come and fetch him. Ay, 'tis true!
   Meantime he surfeits in prosperity,
   And thou, in envy of him, gnaw'st thyself:
   Peace, fool, get hence, and tell thy vexed spirit,
   Wealth in this age will scarcely look on merit.
   [RISES AND EXIT.

   SORD. Who brought this same, sirrah?

   HIND. Marry, sir, one of the justice's men; he says 'tis a precept, and
   all their hands be at it.

   SORD. Ay, and the prints of them stick in my flesh,
   Deeper than in their letters: they have sent me
   Pills wrapt in paper here, that, should I take them,
   Would poison all the sweetness of my book,
   And turn my honey into hemlock juice.
   But I am wiser than to serve their precepts,
   Or follow their prescriptions. Here's a device,
   To charge me bring my grain unto the markets:
   Ay, much! when I have neither barn nor garner,
   Nor earth to hid it in, I'll bring 't; till then,
   Each corn I send shall be as big as Paul's.
   O, but (say some) the poor are like to starve.
   Why, let 'em starve, what's that to me? are bees
   Bound to keep life in drones and idle moths? no:
   Why such are these that term themselves the poor,
   Only because they would be pitied,
   But are indeed a sort of lazy beggars,
   Licentious rogues, and sturdy vagabonds,
   Bred by the sloth of a fat plenteous year,
   Like snakes in heat of summer, out of dung;
   And this is all that these cheap times are good for:
   Whereas a wholesome and penurious dearth
   Purges the soil of such vile excrements,
   And kills the vipers up.

   HIND. O, but master,
   Take heed they hear you not.

   SORD. Why so?

   HIND. They will exclaim against you.

   SORD. Ay, their exclaims
   Move me as much, as thy breath moves a mountain.
   Poor worms, they hiss at me, whilst I at home
   Can be contented to applaud myself,
   To sit and clap my hands, and laugh, and leap,
   Knocking my head against my roof, with joy
   To see how plump my bags are, and my barns.
   Sirrah, go hie you home, and bid your fellows
   Get all their flails ready again I come.

   HIND. I will, sir.
   [EXIT.

   SORD. I'll instantly set all my hinds to thrashing
   Of a whole rick of corn, which I will hide
   Under the ground; and with the straw thereof
   I'll stuff the outsides of my other mows:
   That done, I'll have them empty all my garners,
   And in the friendly earth bury my store,
   That, when the searchers come, they may suppose
   All's spent, and that my fortunes were belied.
   And to lend more opinion to my want,
   And stop that many-mouthed vulgar dog,
   Which else would still be baying at my door,
   Each market-day I will be seen to buy
   Part of the purest wheat, as for my household;
   Where when it comes, it shall increase my heaps:
   'Twill yield me treble gain at this dear time,
   Promised in this dear book: I have cast all.
   Till then I will not sell an ear, I'll hang first.
   O, I shall make my prices as I list;
   My house and I can feed on peas and barley.
   What though a world of wretches starve the while;
   He that will thrive must think no courses vile.
   [EXIT.

   COR. Now, signior, how approve you this? have the humourists exprest
   themselves truly or no?

   MIT. Yes, if it be well prosecuted, 'tis hitherto happy enough: but
   methinks Macilente went hence too soon; he might have been made to stay,
   and speak somewhat in reproof of Sordido's wretchedness now at the last.

   COR. O, no, that had been extremely improper; besides, he had continued
   the scene too long with him, as 'twas, being in no more action.

   MIT. You may inforce the length as a necessary reason; but for propriety,
   the scene wou'd very well have borne it, in my judgment.

   COR. O, worst of both; why, you mistake his humour utterly then.

   MIT. How do I mistake it? Is it not envy?

   COR. Yes, but you must understand, signior, he envies him not as he is a
   villain, a wolf in the commonwealth, but as he is rich and fortunate; for
   the true condition of envy is, 'dolor alienae felicitatis', to have our
   eyes continually fixed upon another man's prosperity that is, his chief
   happiness, and to grieve at that. Whereas, if we make his monstrous and
   abhorr'd actions our object, the grief we take then comes nearer the nature
   of hate than envy, as being bred out of a kind of contempt and loathing in
   ourselves.

   MIT. So you'll infer it had been hate, not envy in him, to reprehend the
   humour of Sordido?

   COR. Right, for what a man truly envies in another, he could always love
   and cherish in himself; but no man truly reprehends in another, what he
   loves in himself; therefore reprehension is out of his hate. And this
   distinction hath he himself made in a speech there, if you marked it, where
   he says, "I envy not this Buffone, but I hate him." Why might he not as
   well have hated Sordido as him?

   COR. No, sir, there was subject for his envy in Sordido, his wealth: so
   was there not in the other. He stood possest of no one eminent gift, but a
   most odious and fiend-like disposition, that would turn charity itself into
   hate, much more envy, for the present.

   MIT. You have satisfied me, sir. O, here comes the fool, and the jester
   again, methinks.

   COR. 'Twere pity they should be parted, sir.

   MIT. What bright-shining gallant's that with them? the knight they went to?

   COR. No, sir, this is one monsieur Fastidious Brisk, otherwise called the
   fresh Frenchified courtier.

   MIT. A humourist too?

   COR. As humorous as quicksilver; do but observe him; the scene is the
   country still, remember.