"We such clusters had
As made us nobly wild, not mad,
And yet each verse of thine
Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine."

"O rare Ben Jonson."

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

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

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

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

   Masques and Entertainments were published in the early folios.

   WORKS:
   Fol., 1616, volume. 2, 1640 (1631-41);
   fol., 1692, 1716-19, 1729;
   edited by P. Whalley, 7 volumes., 1756;
   by Gifford (with Memoir), 9 volumes., 1816, 1846;
   re-edited by F. Cunningham, 3 volumes., 1871;
   in 9 volumes., 1875;
   by Barry Cornwall (with Memoir), 1838;
   by B. Nicholson (Mermaid Series), with Introduction 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.

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

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

     CYNTHIA.
     ECHO.
     MERCURY.
     ARETE.
     HESPERUS.
     PHANTASTE.
     CRITES.
     ARGURION.
     AMORPHUS.
     PHILAUTIA.
     ASOTUS.
     MORIA.
     HEDON.
     COS.
     ANAIDES.
     GELAIA.
     MORPHIDES.
     PROSAITES.
     MORUS.
     CUPID.

     MUTES.—PHRONESIS, THAUMA, TIME

   INDUCTION.

   THE STAGE.

   AFTER THE SECOND SOUNDING.

   ENTER THREE OF THE CHILDREN, STRUGGLING.

   1 CHILD.  Pray you away; why, fellows!  Gods so, what do you mean?

   2 CHILD.  Marry, that you shall not speak the prologue sir.

   3 CHILD.  Why, do you hope to speak it?

   2 CHILD.  Ay, and I think I have most right to it: I am sure I
   studied it first.

   3 CHILD.  That's all one, if the author think I can speak it
   better.

   1 CHILD.  I plead possession of the cloak: gentles, your suffrages,
   I pray you.

   [WITHIN.]  Why children! are you not ashamed? come in there.

   3 CHILD.  Slid, I'll play nothing in the play: unless I speak it.

   1 CHILD.  Why, will you stand to most voices of the gentlemen? let
   that decide it.

   3 CHILD.  O, no, sir gallant; you presume to have the start of us
   there, and that makes you offer so prodigally.

   1 CHILD.  No, would I were whipped if I had any such thought; try
   it by lots either.

   2 CHILD.  Faith, I dare tempt my fortune in a greater venture than
   this.

   3 CHILD.  Well said, resolute Jack! I am content too; so we draw
   first. Make the cuts.

   1 CHILD.  But will you not snatch my cloak while I am stooping?

   3 CHILD.  No, we scorn treachery.

   2 CHILD.  Which cut shall speak it?

   3 CHILD.  The shortest.

   1 CHILD.  Agreed: draw.  [THEY DRAW CUTS.]  The shortest is come
   to the shortest.  Fortune was not altogether blind in this.  Now,
   sir, I hope I shall go forward without your envy.

   2 CHILD.  A spite of all mischievous luck!  I was once plucking at
   the other.

   3 CHILD.  Stay Jack: 'slid I'll do somewhat now afore I go in,
   though it be nothing but to revenge myself on the author; since I
   speak not his prologue, I'll go tell all the argument of his play
   afore-hand, and so stale his invention to the auditory, before it
   come forth.

   1 CHILD.  O, do not so.

   2 CHILD.  By no means.

   3 CHILD. [ADVANCING TO THE FRONT OF THE STAGE.]  First, the title
   of his play is "Cynthia's Revels," as any man that hath hope to be
   saved by his book can witness; the scene, Gargaphie, which I do
   vehemently suspect for some fustian country; but let that vanish.
   Here is the court of Cynthia whither he brings Cupid travelling on
   foot, resolved to turn page.  By the way Cupid meets with Mercury,
   (as that's a thing to be noted); take any of our play-books without
   a Cupid or a Mercury in it, and burn it for an heretic in poetry.
   —[IN THESE AND THE SUBSEQUENT SPEECHES, AT EVERY BREAK, THE OTHER
   TWO INTERRUPT, AND ENDEAVOUR TO STOP HIM.]  Pray thee, let me
   alone.  Mercury, he in the nature of a conjurer, raises up Echo, who
   weeps over her love, or daffodil, Narcissus, a little; sings;
   curses the spring wherein the pretty foolish gentleman melted
   himself away: and there's an end of her.—Now I am to inform
   you, that Cupid and Mercury do both become pages.  Cupid attends on
   Philautia, or Self-love, a court lady: Mercury follows Hedon, the
   Voluptuous, and a courtier; one that ranks himself even with
   Anaides, or the Impudent, a gallant, and, that's my part; one that
   keeps Laughter, Gelaia, the daughter of Folly, a wench in boy's
   attire, to wait on him—These, in the court, meet with Amorphus,
   or the deformed, a traveller that hath drunk of the fountain, and
   there tells the wonders of the water.  They presently dispatch away
   their pages with bottles to fetch of it, and themselves go to visit
   the ladies.  But I should have told you—Look, these emmets put
   me out here—that with this Amorphus, there comes along a
   citizen's heir, Asotus, or the Prodigal, who, in imitation of the
   traveller, who hath the Whetstone following him, entertains the
   Beggar, to be his attendant.—Now, the nymphs who are mistresses
   to these gallants, are Philautia, Self-love; Phantaste, a light
   Wittiness; Argurion, Money; and their guardian, mother Moria; or
   mistress Folly.

   1 CHILD.  Pray thee, no more.

   3 CHILD.  There Cupid strikes Money in love with the Prodigal,
   makes her dote upon him, give him jewels, bracelets, carcanets,
   etc.  All which he most ingeniously departs withal to be made
   known to the other ladies and gallants; and in the heat of this,
   increases his train with the Fool to follow him, as well as the
   Beggar—By this time, your Beggar begins to wait close, who is
   returned with the rest of his fellow bottlemen.—There they all
   drink, save Argurion, who is fallen into a sudden apoplexy—

   1 CHILD.  Stop his mouth.

   3 CHILD.  And then there's a retired scholar there, you would not
   wish a thing to be better contemn'd of a society of gallants, than
   it is; and he applies his service, good gentleman, to the Lady
   Arete, or Virtue, a poor nymph of Cynthia's train, that's scarce
   able to buy herself a gown; you shall see her play in a black robe
   anon: a creature, that, I assure you, is no less scorn'd than
   himself.  Where am I now? at a stand!

   2 CHILD.  Come, leave at last, yet.

   3 CHILD.  O, the night is come ('twas somewhat dark, methought),
   and Cynthia intends to come forth; that helps it a little yet.  All
   the courtiers must provide for revels; they conclude upon a masque,
   the device of which is—What, will you ravish me?—that each of
   these Vices, being to appear before Cynthia, would seem other than
   indeed they are; and therefore assume the most neighbouring Virtues
   as their masking habit—I'd cry a rape, but that you are
   children.

   2 CHILD.  Come, we'll have no more of this anticipation; to give
   them the inventory of their cates aforehand, were the discipline of
   a tavern, and not fitting this presence.

   1 CHILD.  Tut, this was but to shew us the happiness of his memory.
   I thought at first he would have plaid the ignorant critic with
   everything along as he had gone; I expected some such device.

   3 CHILD.  O, you shall see me do that rarely; lend me thy cloak.

   1 CHILD.  Soft sir, you'll speak my prologue in it.

   3 CHILD.  No, would I might never stir then.

   2 CHILD.  Lend it him, lend it him:

   1 CHILD.  Well, you have sworn. [GIVES HIM THE CLOAK.]

   3 CHILD.  I have.  Now, sir; suppose I am one of your genteel
   auditors, that am come in, having paid my money at the door, with
   much ado, and here I take my place and sit down: I have my three
   sorts of tobacco in my pocket, my light by me, and thus I begin.
   [AT THE BREAKS HE TAKES HIS TOBACCO.]  By this light, I wonder that
   any man is so mad, to come to see these rascally tits play here—
   They do act like so many wrens or pismires—not the fifth part of
   a good face amongst them all.—And then their music is abominable
   —able to stretch a man's ears worse then ten—pillories and their
   ditties—most lamentable things, like the pitiful fellows that
   make them—poets.  By this vapour, an 'twere not for tobacco—
   I think—the very stench of 'em would poison me, I should not
   dare to come in at their gates—A man were better visit fifteen
   jails—or a dozen or two of hospitals—than once adventure to
   come near them.  How is't? well?

   1 CHILD.  Excellent; give me my cloak.

   3 CHILD.  Stay; you shall see me do another now: but a more sober,
   or better-gather'd gallant; that is, as it may be thought, some
   friend, or well-wisher to the house: and here I enter.

   1 CHILD.  What? upon the stage too?

   2 CHILD.  Yes; and I step forth like one of the children, and ask
   you.  Would you have a stool sir?

   3 CHILD.  A stool, boy!

   2 CHILD.  Ay, sir, if you'll give me sixpence, I'll fetch you one.

   3 CHILD.  For what, I pray thee? what shall I do with it?

   2 CHILD.  O lord, sir! will you betray your ignorance so much?
   why throne yourself in state on the stage, as other gentlemen use,
   sir.

   3 CHILD.  Away, wag; what would'st thou make an implement of me?
   'Slid, the boy takes me for a piece of perspective, I hold my life,
   or some silk curtain, come to hang the stage here!  Sir crack, I am
   none of your fresh pictures, that use to beautify the decayed dead
   arras in a public theatre.

   2 CHILD.  'Tis a sign, sir, you put not that confidence in your
   good clothes, and your better face, that a gentleman should do,
   sir.  But I pray you sir, let me be a suitor to you, that you will
   quit our stage then, and take a place; the play is instantly to
   begin.

   3 CHILD.  Most willingly, my good wag; but I would speak with your
   author: where is he?

   2 CHILD.  Not this way, I assure you sir; we are not so officiously
   befriended by him, as to have his presence in the tiring-house, to
   prompt us aloud, stamp at the book-holder, swear for our
   properties, curse the poor tireman, rail the music out of tune, and
   sweat for every venial trespass we commit, as some author would, if
   he had such fine enghles as we.  Well, 'tis but our hard fortune!

   3 CHILD.  Nay, crack, be not disheartened.

   2 CHILD.  Not I sir; but if you please to confer with our author, by
   attorney, you may, sir; our proper self here, stands for him.

   3 CHILD.  Troth, I have no such serious affair to negotiate with
   him; but what may very safely be turn'd upon thy trust.  It is in
   the general behalf of this fair society here that I am to speak;
   at least the more judicious part of it: which seems much distasted
   with the immodest and obscene writing of many in their plays.
   Besides, they could wish your poets would leave to be promoters of
   other men's jests, and to way-lay all the stale apothegms, or old
   books they can hear of, in print or otherwise, to farce their
   scenes withal.  That they would not so penuriously glean wit from
   every laundress or hackney-man; or derive their best grace, with
   servile imitation, from common stages, or observation of the
   company they converse with; as if their invention lived wholly
   upon another man's trencher.  Again, that feeding their friends
   with nothing of their own, but what they have twice or thrice
   cooked, they should not wantonly give out, how soon they had drest
   it; nor how many coaches came to carry away the broken meat,
   besides hobby-horses and foot-cloth nags.

   2 CHILD.  So, sir, this is all the reformation you seek?

   3 CHILD.  It is; do not you think it necessary to be practised, my
   little wag?

   2 CHILD.  Yes, where any such ill-habited custom is received.

   3 CHILD.  O (I had almost forgot it too), they say, the umbrae, or
   ghosts of some three or four plays departed a dozen years since,
   have been seen walking on your stage here; take heed boy, if your
   house be haunted with such hobgoblins, 'twill fright away all your
   spectators quickly.

   2 CHILD.  Good, sir; but what will you say now, if a poet, untouch'd
   with any breath of this disease, find the tokens upon you, that are
   of the auditory?  As some one civet-wit among you, that knows no
   other learning, than the price of satin and velvets: nor other
   perfection than the wearing of a neat suit; and yet will censure
   as desperately as the most profess'd critic in the house, presuming
   his clothes should bear him out in it. Another, whom it hath
   pleased nature to furnish with more beard than brain, prunes his
   mustaccio; lisps, and, with some score of affected oaths, swears
   down all that sit about him; "That the old Hieronimo, as it was
   first acted, was the only best, and judiciously penn'd play of
   Europe".  A third great-bellied juggler talks of twenty years
   since, and when Monsieur was here, and would enforce all wits to be
   of that fashion, because his doublet is still so.  A fourth
   miscalls all by the name of fustian, that his grounded capacity
   cannot aspire to.  A fifth only shakes his bottle head, and out of
   his corky brain squeezeth out a pitiful learned face, and is
   silent.

   3 CHILD.  By my faith, Jack, you have put me down: I would I knew
   how to get off with any indifferent grace! here take your cloak,
   and promise some satisfaction in your prologue, or, I'll be sworn
   we have marr'd all.

   2 CHILD.  Tut, fear not, child, this will never distaste a true
   sense: be not out, and good enough.  I would thou hadst some sugar
   candied to sweeten thy mouth.

   THE THIRD SOUNDING.

   PROLOGUE.

        If gracious silence, sweet attention,
        Quick sight, and quicker apprehension,
        The lights of judgment's throne, shine any where,
        Our doubtful author hopes this is their sphere;
        And therefore opens he himself to those,
        To other weaker beams his labours close,
        As loth to prostitute their virgin-strain,
        To every vulgar and adulterate brain.
        In this alone, his Muse her sweetness hath,
        She shuns the print of any beaten path;
        And proves new ways to come to learned ears:
        Pied ignorance she neither loves, nor fears.
        Nor hunts she after popular applause,
        Or foamy praise, that drops from common jaws
        The garland that she wears, their hands must twine,
        Who can both censure, understand, define
        What merit is: then cast those piercing rays,
        Round as a crown, instead of honour'd bays,
        About his poesy; which, he knows, affords
        Words, above action; matter, above words.

   SCENE I.—A GROVE AND FOUNTAIN.

   ENTER CUPID, AND MERCURY WITH HIS CADUCEUS, ON DIFFERENT SIDES.

   CUP.  Who goes there?

   MER.  'Tis I, blind archer.

   CUP.  Who, Mercury?

   MER.  Ay.

   CUP.  Farewell.

   MER.  Stay Cupid.

   CUP.  Not in your company, Hermes, except your hands were riveted at
   your back.

   MER.  Why so, my little rover?

   CUP.  Because I know you have not a finger, but is as long as my
   quiver, cousin Mercury, when you please to extend it.

   MER.  Whence derive you this speech, boy?

   CUP.  O! 'tis your best polity to be ignorant.  You did never steal
   Mars his sword out of the sheath, you! nor Neptune's trident! nor
   Apollo's bow! no, not you!  Alas, your palms, Jupiter knows, they
   are as tender as the foot of a foundered nag, or a lady's face new
   mercuried, they'll touch nothing.

   MER.  Go to, infant, you'll be daring still.

   CUP.  Daring! O Janus! what a word is there? why, my light
   feather-heel'd coz, what are you any more than my uncle Jove's
   pander? a lacquey that runs on errands for him, and can whisper a
   light message to a loose wench with some round volubility? wait
   mannerly at a table with a trencher, warble upon a crowd a little,
   and fill out nectar when Ganymede's away? one that sweeps the god's
   drinking-room every morning, and sets the cushions in order again,
   which they threw one at another's head over night; can brush the
   carpets, call the stools again to their places, play the crier of
   the court with an audible voice, and take state of a president upon
   you at wrestlings, pleadings, negociations, etc.  Here's the
   catalogue of your employments, now!  O, no, I err; you have the
   marshalling of all the ghosts too that pass the Stygian ferry, and
   I suspect you for a share with the old sculler there, if the truth
   were known; but let that scape.  One other peculiar virtue you
   possess, in lifting, or leiger-du-main, which few of the house of
   heaven have else besides, I must confess.  But, methinks, that
   should not make you put that extreme distance 'twixt yourself and
   others, that we should be said to "over-dare" in speaking to your
   nimble deity.  So Hercules might challenge priority of us both,
   because he can throw the bar farther, or lift more join'd stools at
   the arm's end, than we.  If this might carry it, then we, who have
   made the whole body of divinity tremble at the twang of our bow,
   and enforc'd Saturnius himself to lay by his curled front, thunder,
   and three-fork'd fires, and put on a masking suit, too light for a
   reveller of eighteen to be seen in—

   MER.  How now! my dancing braggart in decimo sexto! charm your
   skipping tongue, or I'll—

   CUP.  What! use the virtue of your snaky tip staff there upon us?

   MER.  No, boy, but the smart vigour of my palm about your ears.
   You have forgot since I took your heels up into air, on the very
   hour I was born, in sight of all the bench of deities, when the
   silver roof of the Olympian palace rung again with applause of
   the fact.

   CUP.  O no, I remember it freshly, and by a particular instance;
   for my mother Venus, at the same time, but stoop'd to embrace you,
   and, to speak by metaphor, you borrow'd a girdle of her's, as you
   did Jove's sceptre while he was laughing; and would have done his
   thunder too, but that 'twas too hot for your itching fingers.

   MER.  'Tis well, sir.

   CUP.  I heard, you but look'd in at Vulcan's forge the other day,
   and entreated a pair of his new tongs along with you for company:
   'tis joy on you, i' faith, that you will keep your hook'd talons in
   practice with any thing.  'Slight, now you are on earth, we shall
   have you filch spoons and candlesticks rather than fail: pray Jove
   the perfum'd courtiers keep their casting-bottles, pick-tooths, and
   shittle-cocks from you, or our more ordinary gallants their
   tobacco-boxes; for I am strangely jealous of your nails.

   MER.  Never trust me, Cupid, but you are turn'd a most acute
   gallant of late! the edge of my wit is clean taken off with the
   fine and subtile stroke of your thin-ground tongue; you fight with
   too poignant a phrase, for me to deal with.

   CUP.  O Hermes, your craft cannot make me confident.  I know my own
   steel to be almost spent, and therefore entreat my peace with you,
   in time: you are too cunning for me to encounter at length, and I
   think it my safest ward to close.

   MER.  Well, for once, I'll suffer you to win upon me, wag; but use
   not these strains too often, they'll stretch my patience.  Whither
   might you march, now?

   CUP.  Faith, to recover thy good thoughts, I'll discover my whole
   project.  The huntress and queen of these groves, Diana, in regard
   of some black and envious slanders hourly breathed against her, for
   her divine justice on Acteon, as she pretends, hath here in the
   vale of Gargaphie, proclaim'd a solemn revels, which (her godhead
   put off) she will descend to grace, with the full and royal expense
   of one of her clearest moons: in which time it shall be lawful for
   all sorts of ingenious persons to visit her palace, to court her
   nymphs, to exercise all variety of generous and noble pastimes; as
   well to intimate how far she treads such malicious imputations
   beneath her, as also to shew how clear her beauties are from the
   least wrinkle of austerity they may be charged with.

   MER.  But, what is all this to Cupid?

   CUP.  Here do I mean to put off the title of a god, and take the
   habit of a page, in which disguise, during the interim of these
   revels, I will get to follow some one of Diana's maids, where, if
   my bow hold, and my shafts fly but with half the willingness and
   aim they are directed, I doubt not but I shall really redeem the
   minutes I have lost, by their so long and over nice proscription of
   my deity from their court.

   MER.  Pursue it, divine Cupid, it will be rare.

   CUP.  But will Hermes second me?

   MER.  I am now to put in act an especial designment from my father
   Jove; but, that perform'd, I am for any fresh action that offers
   itself.

   CUP.  Well, then we part. [EXIT.]

   MER.  Farewell good wag.
   Now to my charge.—Echo, fair Echo speak,
   'Tis Mercury that calls thee; sorrowful nymph,
   Salute me with thy repercussive voice,
   That I may know what cavern of the earth,
   Contains thy airy spirit, how, or where
   I may direct my speech, that thou may'st hear.

   ECHO.  [BELOW]  Here.

   MER.  So nigh!

   ECHO.  Ay.

   MER.  Know, gentle soul, then, I am sent from Jove,
   Who, pitying the sad burthen of thy woes,
   Still growing on thee, in thy want of words
   To vent thy passion for Narcissus' death,
   Commands, that now, after three thousand years,
   Which have been exercised in Juno's spite,
   Thou take a corporal figure and ascend,
   Enrich'd with vocal and articulate power.
   Make haste, sad nymph, thrice shall my winged rod
   Strike the obsequious earth, to give thee way.
   Arise, and speak thy sorrows, Echo, rise,
   Here, by this fountain, where thy love did pine,
   Whose memory lives fresh to vulgar fame,
   Shrined in this yellow flower, that bears his name.

   ECHO.  [ASCENDS.]  His name revives, and lifts me up from earth,
   O, which way shall I first convert myself,
   Or in what mood shall I essay to speak,
   That, in a moment, I may be deliver'd
   Of the prodigious grief I go withal?
   See, see, the mourning fount, whose springs weep yet
   Th' untimely fate of that too beauteous boy,
   That trophy of self-love, and spoil of nature,
   Who, now transform'd into this drooping flower,
   Hangs the repentant head, back from the stream,
   As if it wish'd, "Would I had never look'd
   In such a flattering mirror!"  O Narcissus,
   Thou that wast once, and yet art, my Narcissus,
   Had Echo but been private with thy thoughts,
   She would have dropt away herself in tears,
   Till she had all turn'd water; that in her,
   As in a truer glass, thou might'st have gazed
   And seen thy beauties by more kind reflection,
   But self-love never yet could look on truth
   But with blear'd beams; slick flattery and she
   Are twin-born sisters, and so mix their eyes,
   As if you sever one, the other dies.
   Why did the gods give thee a heavenly form,
   And earthly thoughts to make thee proud of it?
   Why do I ask?  'Tis now the known disease
   That beauty hath, to bear too deep a sense
   Of her own self-conceived excellence.
   O, hadst thou known the worth of heaven's rich gift,
   Thou wouldst have turn'd it to a truer use,
   And not with starv'd and covetous ignorance,
   Pined in continual eyeing that bright gem,
   The glance whereof to others had been more,
   Than to thy famish'd mind the wide world's store:
   So wretched is it to be merely rich!
   Witness thy youth's dear sweets here spent untasted,
   Like a fair taper, with his own flame wasted.

   MER.  Echo be brief, Saturnia is abroad,
   And if she hear, she'll storm at Jove's high will.

   CUP.  I will, kind Mercury, be brief as time.
   Vouchsafe me, I may do him these last rites,
   But kiss his flower, and sing some mourning strain
   Over his wat'ry hearse.

   MER.  Thou dost obtain;
   I were no son to Jove, should I deny thee,
   Begin, and more to grace thy cunning voice,
   The humorous air shall mix her solemn tunes
   With thy sad words: strike, music from the spheres,
   And with your golden raptures swell our ears.

   ECHO. [ACCOMPANIED]

   Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears:
   Yet, slower, yet; O faintly, gentle springs:
   List to the heavy part the music bears,
   Woe weeps out her division, when she sings.
   Droop herbs and flowers,
   Fall grief and showers;
   Our beauties are not ours;
   O, I could still,
   Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,
   Drop, drop, drop, drop,
   Since nature's pride is now a wither'd daffodil.—

   MER.  Now have you done?

   ECHO.  Done presently, good Hermes: bide a little;
   Suffer my thirsty eye to gaze awhile,
   But e'en to taste the place, and I am vanish'd.

   MER.  Forego thy use and liberty of tongue,
   And thou mayst dwell on earth, and sport thee there.

   ECHO.  Here young Acteon fell, pursued, and torn
   By Cynthia's wrath, more eager than his hounds;
   And here—ah me, the place is fatal!—see
   The weeping Niobe, translated hither
   From Phrygian mountains; and by Phoebe rear'd,
   As the proud trophy of her sharp revenge.

   MER.  Nay but hear—

   ECHO.  But here, O here, the fountain of self-love,
   In which Latona, and her careless nymphs,
   Regardless of my sorrows, bathe themselves
   In hourly pleasures.

   MER.  Stint thy babbling tongue!
   Fond Echo, thou profan'st the grace is done thee.
   So idle worldlings merely made of voice,
   Censure the powers above them.  Come away,
   Jove calls thee hence; and his will brooks no stay.

   ECHO.  O, stay: I have but one poor thought to clothe
   In airy garments, and then, faith, I go.
   Henceforth, thou treacherous and murdering spring,
   Be ever call'd the FOUNTAIN OF SELF-LOVE:
   And with thy water let this curse remain,
   As an inseparate plague, that who but taste
   A drop thereof, may, with the instant touch,
   Grow dotingly enamour'd on themselves.
   Now, Hermes, I have finish'd.

   MER.  Then thy speech
   Must here forsake thee, Echo, and thy voice,
   As it was wont, rebound but the last words.
   Farewell.

   ECHO.  [RETIRING.]  Well.

   MER.  Now, Cupid, I am for you, and your mirth,
   To make me light before I leave the earth.

   ENTER AMORPHUS, HASTILY.

   AMO.  Dear spark of beauty, make not so fast away:

   ECHO.  Away.

   MER.  Stay, let me observe this portent yet.

   AMO.  I am neither your Minotaur, nor your Centaur, nor your satyr,
   nor your hyaena, nor your babion, but your mere traveller, believe
   me.

   ECHO.  Leave me.

   MER.  I guess'd it should be some travelling motion pursued Echo
   so.

   AMO.  Know you from whom you fly? or whence?

   ECHO.  Hence.  [EXIT.]

   AMO.  This is somewhat above strange: A nymph of her feature and
   lineament, to be so preposterously rude! well, I will but cool
   myself at yon spring, and follow her.

   MER.  Nay, then, I am familiar with the issue: I will leave you
   too.  [EXIT.]

   AMOR.  I am a rhinoceros, if I had thought a creature of her
   symmetry would have dared so improportionable and abrupt a
   digression.—Liberal and divine fount, suffer my profane hand to
   take of thy bounties.  [TAKES UP SOME OF THE WATER.]  By the purity
   of my taste, here is most ambrosiac water; I will sup of it again.
   By thy favour, sweet fount.  See, the water, a more running,
   subtile, and humorous nymph than she permits me to touch, and
   handle her.  What should I infer? if my behaviours had been of a
   cheap or customary garb; my accent or phrase vulgar; my garments
   trite; my countenance illiterate, or unpractised in the encounter
   of a beautiful and brave attired piece; then I might, with some
   change of colour, have suspected my faculties: But, knowing myself
   an essence so sublimated and refined by travel; of so studied and
   well exercised a gesture; so alone in fashion, able to render the
   face of any statesman living; and to speak the mere extraction of
   language, one that hath now made the sixth return upon venture; and
   was your first that ever enrich'd his country with the true laws of
   the duello; whose optics have drunk the spirit of beauty in some
   eight score and eighteen prince's courts, where I have resided, and
   been there fortunate in the amours of three hundred and forty and five
   ladies, all nobly, if not princely descended; whose names I have in
   catalogue: To conclude, in all so happy, as even admiration
   herself doth seem to fasten her kisses upon me:—certes, I do
   neither see, nor feel, nor taste, nor savour the least steam or
   fume of a reason, that should invite this foolish, fastidious
   nymph, so peevishly to abandon me.  Well, let the memory of her
   fleet into air; my thoughts and I am for this other element, water.

   ENTER CRITES AND ASOTUS.

   CRI.  What, the well dieted Amorphus become a water-drinker!  I see
   he means not to write verses then.

   ASO.  No, Crites! why?

   CRI.  Because—
   Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt,
   Quae scribuntur aquae potoribus.

   AMO.  What say you to your Helicon?

   CRI.  O, the Muses' well! that's ever excepted.

   AMO.  Sir, your Muses have no such water, I assure you; your
   nectar, or the juice of your nepenthe, is nothing to it; 'tis above
   your metheglin, believe it.

   ASO.  Metheglin; what's that, sir? may I be so audacious to
   demand?

   AMO.  A kind of Greek wine I have met with, sir, in my travels; it
   is the same that Demosthenes usually drunk, in the composure of all
   his exquisite and mellifluous orations.

   CRI.  That's to be argued, Amorphus, if we may credit Lucian, who,
   in his "Encomio Demosthenis," affirms, he never drunk but water in
   any of his compositions.

   AMO.  Lucian is absurd, he knew nothing: I will believe mine own
   travels before all the Lucians of Europe.  He doth feed you with
   fittons, figments, and leasings.

   CRI.  Indeed, I think, next a traveller, he does prettily well.

   AMO.  I assure you it was wine, I have tasted it, and from the hand
   of an Italian antiquary, who derives it authentically from the duke
   of Ferrara's bottles.  How name you the gentleman you are in rank
   there with, sir?

   CRI.  'Tis Asotus, son to the late deceased Philargyrus, the
   citizen.

   AMO.  Was his father of any eminent place or means?

   CRI.  He was to have been praetor next year.

   AMO.  Ha! a pretty formal young gallant, in good sooth; pity he is
   not more genteelly propagated.  Hark you, Crites, you may say to
   him what I am, if you please; though I affect not popularity, yet I
   would loth to stand out to any, whom you shall vouchsafe to call
   friend.

   CRI.  Sir, I fear I may do wrong to your sufficiencies in the
   reporting them, by forgetting or misplacing some one: yourself can
   best inform him of yourself sir; except you had some catalogue or
   list of your faculties ready drawn, which you would request me to
   show him for you, and him to take notice of.

   AMO.  This Crites is sour: [ASIDE.]—I will think, sir.

   CRI.  Do so, sir.—O heaven! that anything in the likeness of man
   should suffer these rack'd extremities, for the uttering of his
   sophisticate good parts. [ASIDE.]

   ASO.  Crites, I have a suit to you; but you must not deny me; pray
   you make this gentleman and I friends.

   CRI.  Friends! why, is there any difference between you?

   ASO.  No; I mean acquaintance, to know one another.

   CRI.  O, now I apprehend you; your phrase was without me before.

   ASO.  In good faith, he's a most excellent rare man, I warrant
   him.

   CRI.  'Slight, they are mutually enamour'd by this time.  [ASIDE.]

   ASO.  Will you, sweet Crites?

   CRI.  Yes, yes.

   ASO.  Nay, but when? you'll defer it now, and forget it.

   CRI.  Why, is it a thing of such present necessity, that it
   requires so violent a dispatch!

   ASO.  No, but would I might never stir, he's a most ravishing man!
   Good Crites, you shall endear me to you, in good faith; la!

   CRI.  Well, your longing shall be satisfied, sir.

   ASO.  And withal, you may tell him what my father was, and how well
   he left me, and that I am his heir.

   CRI.  Leave it to me, I'll forget none of your dear graces, I
   warrant you.

   ASO.  Nay, I know you can better marshal these affairs than I can
   —O gods! I'd give all the world, if I had it, for abundance of
   such acquaintance.

   CRI.  What ridiculous circumstance might I devise now, to bestow
   this reciprocal brace of butterflies one upon another?  [ASIDE.]

   AMO.  Since I trod on this side the Alps, I was not so frozen in my
   invention.  Let me see: to accost him with some choice remnant of
   Spanish, or Italian! that would indifferently express my languages
   now: marry, then, if he shall fall out to be ignorant, it were both
   hard, and harsh.  How else? step into some ragioni del stato, and
   so make my induction! that were above him too; and out of his
   element I fear.  Feign to have seen him in Venice or Padua! or some
   face near his in similitude! 'tis too pointed and open.  No, it must
   be a more quaint and collateral device, as—stay: to frame some
   encomiastic speech upon this our metropolis, or the wise
   magistrates thereof, in which politic number, 'tis odds but his
   father fill'd up a room? descend into a particular admiration of
   their justice, for the due measuring of coals, burning of cans, and
   such like? as also their religion, in pulling down a superstitious
   cross, and advancing a Venus; or Priapus, in place of it? ha!
   'twill do well.  Or to talk of some hospital, whose walls record
   his father a benefactor? or of so many buckets bestow'd on his
   parish church in his lifetime, with his name at length, for want of
   arms, trickt upon them? any of these.  Or to praise the cleanness
   of the street wherein he dwelt? or the provident painting of his
   posts, against he should have been praetor? or, leaving his parent,
   come to some special ornament about himself, as his rapier, or some
   other of his accountrements?  I have it: thanks, gracious Minerva!

   ASO.  Would I had but once spoke to him, and then—He comes to
   me!

   AMO.  'Tis a most curious and neatly wrought band this same, as I
   have seen, sir.

   ASO.  O lord, sir.

   AMO.  You forgive the humour of mine eye, in observing it.

   CRI.  His eye waters after it, it seems.  [ASIDE.]

   ASO.  O lord, sir! there needs no such apology I assure you.

   CRI.  I am anticipated; they'll make a solemn deed of gift of
   themselves, you shall see.  [ASIDE.]

   AMO.  Your riband too does most gracefully in troth.

   ASO.  'Tis the most genteel and received wear now, sir.

   AMO.  Believe me, sir, I speak it not to humour you—I have not
   seen a young gentleman, generally, put on his clothes with more
   judgment.

   ASO.  O, 'tis your pleasure to say so, sir.

   AMO.  No, as I am virtuous, being altogether untravell'd, it
   strikes me into wonder.

   ASO.  I do purpose to travel, sir, at spring.

   AMO.  I think I shall affect you, sir.  This last speech of yours
   hath begun to make you dear to me.

   ASO.  O lord, sir! I would there were any thing in me, sir, that
   might appear worthy the least worthiness of your worth, sir.  I
   protest, sir, I should endeavour to shew it, sir, with more than
   common regard sir.

   CRI.  O, here's rare motley, sir. [ASIDE.]

   AMO.  Both your desert, and your endeavours are plentiful, suspect
   them not: but your sweet disposition to travel, I assure you, hath
   made you another myself in mine eye, and struck me enamour'd on
   your beauties.

   ASO.  I would I were the fairest lady of France for your sake, sir!
   and yet I would travel too.

   AMO.  O, you should digress from yourself else: for, believe it,
   your travel is your only thing that rectifies, or, as the Italian
   says, "vi rendi pronto all' attioni," makes you fit for action.

   ASO.  I think it be great charge though, sir.

   AMO.  Charge! why 'tis nothing for a gentleman that goes private,
   as yourself, or so; my intelligence shall quit my charge at all
   time.  Good faith, this hat hath possest mine eye exceedingly; 'tis
   so pretty and fantastic: what! is it a beaver?

   ASO.  Ay, sir, I'll assure you 'tis a beaver, it cost me eight
   crowns but this morning.

   AMO.  After your French account?

   ASO.  Yes, sir.

   CRI.  And so near his head! beshrew me, dangerous. [ASIDE.]

   AMO.  A very pretty fashion, believe me, and a most novel kind of
   trim: your band is conceited too!

   ASO.  Sir, it is all at your service.

   AMO.  O, pardon me.

   ASO.  I beseech you, sir, if you please to wear it, you shall do me
   a most infinite grace.

   CRI.  'Slight, will he be prais'd out of his clothes?

   ASO.  By heaven, sir, I do not offer it you after the Italian
   manner; I would you should conceive so of me.

   AMO.  Sir, I shall fear to appear rude in denying your courtesies,
   especially being invited by so proper a distinction: May I pray
   your name, sir?

   ASO.  My name is Asotus, sir.

   AMO.  I take your love, gentle Asotus, but let me win you to
   receive this, in exchange.—[THEY EXCHANGE BEAVERS.]

   CRI.  Heart! they'll change doublets anon.  [ASIDE.]

   AMO.  And, from this time esteem yourself in the first rank of
   those few whom I profess to love.  What make you in company of this
   scholar here?  I will bring you known to gallants, as Anaides of
   the ordinary, Hedon the courtier, and others, whose society shall
   render you graced and respected: this is a trivial fellow, too
   mean, too cheap, too coarse for you to converse with.

   ASO.  'Slid, this is not worth a crown, and mine cost me eight but
   this morning.

   CRI.  I looked when he would repent him, he has begun to be sad a
   good while.

   AMO.  Sir, shall I say to you for that hat?  Be not so sad, be not
   so sad: It is a relic I could not so easily have departed with, but
   as the hieroglyphic of my affection; you shall alter it to what
   form you please, it will take any block; I have received it varied
   on record to the three thousandth time, and not so few: It hath
   these virtues beside: your head shall not ache under it, nor your
   brain leave you, without license; It will preserve your complexion
   to eternity; for no beam of the sun, should you wear it under zona
   torrida, hath power to approach it by two ells.  It is proof
   against thunder, and enchantment; and was given me by a great man
   in Russia, as an especial prized present; and constantly affirm'd
   to be the hat that accompanied the politic Ulysses in his tedious
   and ten years' travels.

   ASO.  By Jove, I will not depart withal, whosoever would give me a
   million.

   ENTER COS AND PROSAITES.

   COS.  Save you sweet bloods! does any of you want a creature, or a
   dependent?

   CRI.  Beshrew me, a fine blunt slave!

   AMO.  A page of good timber! it will now be my grace to entertain
   him first, though I cashier him again in private.—How art thou
   call'd?

   COS.  Cos, sir, Cos.

   CRI.  Cos! how happily hath fortune furnish'd him with a whetstone?

   AMO.  I do entertain you, Cos; conceal your quality till we be
   private; if your parts be worthy of me, I will countenance you; if
   not, catechise you.—Gentles, shall we go?

   ASO.  Stay, sir: I'll but entertain this other fellow, and then—
   I have a great humour to taste of this water too, but I'll come
   again alone for that—mark the place.—What's your name, youth?

   PROS.  Prosaites, sir.

   ASO.  Prosaites! a very fine name; Crites, is it not?

   CRI.  Yes, and a very ancient one, sir, the Beggar.

   ASO.  Follow me, good Prosaites; let's talk.

   [EXEUNT ALL BUT CRITES.]

   CRI.  He will rank even with you, ere't be long.
   If you hold on your course.  O, vanity
   How are thy painted beauties doted on,
   By light and empty idiots! how pursued
   With open, and extended appetite!
   How they do sweat, and run themselves from breath,
   Raised on their toes, to catch thy airy forms,
   Still turning giddy, till they reel like drunkards,
   That buy the merry madness of one hour
   With the long irksomeness of following time!
   O, how despised and base a thing is man,
   If he not strive to erect his grovelling thoughts
   Above the strain of flesh? but how more cheap,
   When, ev'n his best and understanding part,
   The crown and strength of all his faculties,
   Floats, like a dead drown'd body, on the stream
   Of vulgar humour, mixt with common'st dregs!
   I suffer for their guilt now, and my soul,
   Like one that looks on ill-affected eyes,
   Is hurt with mere intention on their follies.
   Why will I view them then, my sense might ask me?
   Or is't a rarity, or some new object,
   That strains my strict observance to this point?
   O, would it were! therein I could afford
   My spirit should draw a little near to theirs,
   To gaze on novelties; so vice were one.
   Tut, she is stale, rank, foul; and were it not
   That those that woo her greet her with lock'd eyes,
   In spight of all th' impostures, paintings, drugs,
   Which her bawd, Custom, dawbs her cheeks withal,
   She would betray her loath'd and leprous face,
   And fright the enamour'd dotards from themselves:
   But such is the perverseness of our nature,
   That if we once but fancy levity,
   How antic and ridiculous soe'er
   It suit with us, yet will our muffled thought
   Choose rather not to see it, than avoid it:
   And if we can but banish our own sense,
   We act our mimic tricks with that free license,
   That lust, that pleasure, that security;
   As if we practised in a paste-board case,
   And no one saw the motion, but the motion.
   Well, check thy passion, lest it grow too loud:
   While fools are pitied, they wax fat, and proud.