ACT II., SCENE I.

Enter Aurelio and Musicians.

Aur. This is the window. Now, my noble Orpheus,
 As thou affect'st the name of rarity,
 Strike with the soul of music, that the sound
 May bear my love on his bedewed wing,
 To charm her ear: as when a sacrifice
 With his perfumed steam flies up to heaven
 Into Jove's nostrils, and there throws a mist
 On his enraged brow. O, how my fancy
 Labours with the success! [Song above.

Enter Lucretia.

Luc. Cease your fool's note there; I am not in tune
 To dance after your fiddle. Who are you?
 What saucy groom, that dares so near intrude,
 And with offensive noise grate on my ears?
Aur. What more than earthly light breaks through that window?
 Brighter than all the glittering train of nymphs
 That wait on Cynthia, when she takes her progress
 In pursuit of the swift enchased deer
 Over the Cretan or Athenian hills;
 Or when, attended with those lesser stars,
 She treads the azure circle of the heavens.
Luc. Heyday, this is excellent! What voice is that?
 O, is it you? I cry you mercy, sir:
 I thought as much; these are your tricks still with me:
 You have been sotting on't all night with wine,
 And here you come to finish out your revels.
 I shall be, one day, able to live private,
 I shall, and not be made the epilogue
 Of all your drunken meetings. For shame, away!
 The rosy morning blushes at thy baseness.
 Julia, go throw the music a reward,
 And set them hence.
Aur. Divine Lucretia,
 Do not receive with scorn my proffer'd service:
 O, turn again, though from your arched brow,
 Stung with disdain, and bent down to your eyen,
 You shoot me through with darts of cruelty.
 Ah, foolish man, to court the flame that burns him!
Luc. What would this fellow have?
Aur. Shine still, fair mistress;
 And though in silence, yet still look upon me.
 Your eye discourses[310] with more rhetoric
 Than all the gilded tongues of orators.
Luc. Out of my pity, not my love, I'll answer.
 You come to woo me, and speak fair; 'tis well.
 You think to win me too: you are deceiv'd.
 For when I hate a person, all his actions,
 Though ne'er so good, prove but his prejudice:
 For flatteries are like sweet pills—though sweet,
 Yet if they work not straight, invert to poison.
Aur. Why do you hate me, lady? Was there ever
 Woman so cruel to hate him that lov'd her?
 O, do not so degenerate from nature,
 Which form'd you of a temper soft as silk;
 And to the sweet composure of your body
 Took not a drop of gall or corrupt humour!
 But all your blood was clear and purified.
 Then, as your limbs are fair, so be your mind:
 Cast not a scandal on her curious hand,
 To say she made that crooked or uneven;
 For virtue is the best, which is deriv'd
 From a sweet feature. Women crown their youth
 With the chaste ornaments of love and truth.
Luc. This is a language you are studied in,
 And you have spoke it to a thousand.
Aur. Never, never to any; for my soul is cut so
 To the proportion of what you are,
 That all the other beauty in the world
 That is not found within your face, seems vile.
 O, that I were a veil upon that face,[311]
 To hide it from the world! methinks I could
 Envy the very sun for gazing on you!
Luc. I wonder that a fellow of no worth
 Should talk thus liberally: be so impudent,
 After so many slightings and abuses
 Extorted from me beyond modesty,
 To press upon me still. Have not I told you
 My mind in words, plain to be understood,
 How much I hate you? Can I not enjoy
 The freedom of my chamber, but you must
 Stand in my prospect? If you please, I will
 Resign up all, and leave you possession.
 What can I suffer or expect more grievous
 From the enforcement of an enemy?
Aur. Do not insult upon my sufferings.
 I had well hop'd I should receive some comfort
 From the sweet influence of your words or looks;
 But now must fly, and vanish like a cloud,
 Chas'd with the wind into the colder regions,
 Where sad despair sits ever languishing;
 There will I calculate my injuries,
 Summ'd up with my deserts: then shall I find
 How you are wanting to all good and pity,
 And that you do but juggle with our sense;
 That you appear gentle and smooth as water
 When no wind breathes on it, but indeed
 Are far more hard than rocks of adamant:
 That you are more inconstant than your mistress,
 Fortune, that guides you; that your promises
 Are all deceitful; and that wanton Love,
 Whom former ages, flattering their vice,
 And to procure more freedom for their sin,
 Have term'd a god, laughs at your perjuries.
Luc. You will do this? Why, do so. Ease your mind,
 So I be free from you. There's no such torment
 As to be troubled with an insolent lover
 That will receive no answer: bonds and fetters,
 Perpetual imprisonment, are not like it:
 'Tis worse than to be seiz'd on with a fever,
 A continual surfeit. For heaven's sake leave me,
 And let me hear no more of you.
Aur. Is this the best reward for all my hopes,
 The dear expenses of [my] youth and service,
 Spent in the execution of your follies?
 When not a day or hour but witness'd with me
 With what great study and affected care,
 More than of fame or honour, I invented
 New ways to fit your humour; what observance,
 As if you were the arbitress of courtship,
 I sought to please you with: laid out for fashions,
 And bought them for you; feasted you with banquets;
 Read you asleep i' th' afternoon with pamphlets;
 Sent you elixirs and preservatives,
 Paintings and powders, that would have restor'd
 Old Niobe to youth. The beauty you pretend to,
 Is all my gift. Besides, I was so simple
 To wear your foolish colours,[312] cry your wit up,
 And judgment, when you had none, and swore to it;
 Drank to your health whole nights in hippocras[313]
 Upon my knees with more religion
 Then e'er I said my prayers: which Heaven forgive me!
Luc. Are these such miracles? 'Twas but your duty,
 The tributary homage all men owe
 Unto our sex. Should we enjoin you travel,
 Or send you on an errand into France
 Only to fetch a basket of musk-melons,
 It were a favour for you. Put the case
 That I were Hero, and you were Leander:
 If I should bid you swim the Hellespont,
 Only to know my mind, methinks you might
 Be proud of the employment. Were you a Puritan,
 Did I command you wait me to a play;
 Or to the church, though you had no religion,
 You might not question it.
Aur. Pretty, very pretty!
Luc. And then, because I am familiar,
 And deign out of my nobleness and bounty
 To grace your weak endeavours with the title
 Of courtesy, to wave my fan at you,
 Or let you kiss my hand, must we straight marry?
 I may esteem you in the rank of servants,
 To cast off when I please, ne'er for a husband.
Aur. If ever devil damn'd in a woman's tongue,
 'Tis in thine. I am glad yet you tell me this;
 I might have else proceeded, and gone on
 In the lewd[314] way of loving you, and so
 Have wander'd farther from myself: but now
 I'll study to be wiser, and henceforth
 Hate the whole gang of you; denounce a war,
 Ne'er to be reconcil'd, and rejoice in it;
 And count myself bless'd for't; and wish all men
 May do the like to shun you. For my part,
 If, when my brains are troubled with late drinking
 (I shall have else the grace, sure, to forget you),
 Then but my labouring fancy dream of you,
 I'll start, affrighted at the vision.
Luc. 'Las! how pitifully it takes it to heart!
 It would be angry too, if it knew how.
Aur. Come near me none of you: if I hear
 The sound of your approach, I'll stop my ears;
 Nay, I'll be angry, if I shall imagine
 That any of you think of me: and, for thy sake,
 If I but see the picture of a woman,
 I'll hide my face and break it. So farewell. [Exit Lucretia.

Enter Lorenzo, Mocinigo, and Angelia.

Lor. What are you, friend, and what's your business?
Aur. Whate'er it be, now 'tis despatch'd.
Lor. This is rudeness.
Aur. The fitter for the place and persons then.
Lor. How's that?
Aur. You are a nest of savages: the house
 Is more inhospitable than the quicksands:
 Your daughter sits on that enchanted bay
 Like a siren[315] to entice passengers,
 Who, viewing her through a false perspective,
 Neglect the better traffic of their life;
 But yet, the more they labour to come near her,
 The further she flies back; until at last,
 When she has brought them to some rock or shelf,
 She proudly looks down on the wreck of lovers.
Lor. Why, who has injur'd you?
Aur. No matter who:
 I'll first talk with a sphinx, ere [I'll] converse with you.
Lor. A word. Expound your wrongs more to the full,
 If you expect a remedy.
Aur. I'll rather
 Seek out diseases, choose my death and pine,
 Than stay to be cur'd by you. [Exit.

Enter Æmilia and Lucretia.

Lor. If you be so obstinate,
 Take your course. Why, wife Æmilia,
 Daughter Lucretia, what's the matter here
 With this same fellow? Do you owe him money?
Luc. Owe him money, sir! Does he look like one
 That should lend money? He is a gentleman,
 And they seldom credit anybody.
Lor. Well, wife,
 Where was your matron's wisdom, that should keep
 A vigilant care upon your house and daughter,
 And not have suffer'd her to be surpris'd
 With every loose aspèct and gazing eye
 That suck in hot and lustful motions?
 You were best turn bawd, and prostitute her beauty.
Æmi. You were best turn an old ass,
 And meddle with your bonds and brokage.
Lor. What was his business?
Luc. To tell you true, sir, he is one of those,
 Whom love and fortune have conspir'd to fool,
 And make the subject of a woman's will.
 His idle brain, being void of better reason,
 Is fill'd with toys and humours; and, for want
 Of other exercise, he takes great pains
 For the expressing of his folly: sometimes
 With starts and sighs, hung head, and folded arms,
 Sonnets and pitiful tunes; forgetting
 All due respect unto himself and friends
 With doating on a mistress: she again
 As little pitying him, whose every frown
 Strikes him as dead as fate, and makes him walk
 The living monument of his own sorrow.
Lor. I apprehend he came a-wooing to thee.
 'Tis so, and thou didst scorn him, girl: 'twas well done.
 I'll ease thee of that care: see, I have brought
 A husband to thy hand. Look on him well;
 A worthy man, and a clarissimo.
Luc. A husband, said you? Now Venus be propitious!
 He looks more like the remedy of love,
 A julip to cool it. She that could take fire
 At such a dull flame as his eyes, I should
 Believe her more than touchwood! [Aside.
Moc. A ravishing creature!
 If her condition answer but her feature,
 I am fitted. Her form answers my affection;
 It arrides[316] me exceedingly. I'll speak to her. [Aside.
 Fair mistress, what your father has propos'd
 In the fair way of contract, I stand ready
 To ratify; and let me not seem less
 In your esteem, because I am so easy
 In my consent. Women love out of fancy,
 Men from advice.
Luc. You do not mean in earnest?
 Now Cupid deliver me!
Moc. How, not in earnest!
 As I am strong and mighty in desires,
 You wrong me to question it.
Luc. Good sir, consider
 The infinite distance that is between us
 In age and manners.
Moc. No distance at all:
 My age is youthful, and your youth is aged.
Luc. But you are wise, and will you sell your freedom
 Unto a female tyranny, in despair
 E'er to be quit? You run a strange adventure,
 Without perceiving what a certain hazard
 A creature of my inclination
 Is apt to draw you to.
Moc. I cannot think it.
Luc. 'Tis strange you'll not believe me, unless I lay
 My imperfection open. I have a nature
 Ambitious beyond thought, quite giv'n over
 To entertainments and expense: no bravery
 That's fashionable can escape me; and then,
 Unless you are of a most settled temper,
 Quite without passion, I shall make you
 Horn-mad with jealousy.
Moc. Come, come, I know
 Thou'rt virtuous, and speakest this but to try me.
 You will not be so adverse to your fortune
 And all obedience, to contradict
 What your father has set down.
Luc. These are my faults
 I cannot help, if you'll be so good
 As to dispense with them.
Moc. With all my heart. I forgive thee before thou offend'st.
Luc. Then I am mighty stubborn and self-will'd,
 And shall sometimes e'en long to abuse you:
 And for my tongue, 'tis like a stone thrown down,
 Of an impetuous motion, not to be still'd.
Moc. All these cannot dismay me; for, considering
 How they are passions proper to your sex,
 In a degree they are virtues.
Luc. O my fate!
 He will not be terrified. Then, not to feed you
 With further hopes, or pump for more excuses,
 Take it in brief, though I am loth to speak,
 But you compel me to it—I cannot love you.
Lor. How do you speed, sir? Is she tractable?
 Do you approve of her replies?
Moc. I know not;
 Guess you: she said she cannot love me; and 'tis
 The least thing I should have mistrusted; I durst
 Have sworn she would ne'er have made scruple on't.
Lor. Not love you! Come, she must and shall.
 Do you hear, housewife?
 No more of this, as you affect my friendship.
 What, shall I bring here a right worshipful prætor
 Unto my house, in hope you'll be rul'd,
 And you prove recreant to my commands?
 But, my vex'd soul, thou hast done a deed were able,
 In the mere questioning of what I bid,
 Were not I a pious and indulgent father,
 To thrust thee, as a stranger, from my blood.
Moc. Be not too rash, sir: women are not won
 With force, but fair entreaty. Have I been vers'd
 Thus long i' th' school of love; know all their arts,
 Their practices, their ways, and subtleties,
 In all my encounters still return'd a victor,
 And have not left a stratagem at last
 To work on her affection, let me suffer.
Lor. Nay, and you have that confidence, I'll leave you.
Moc. Lady, a word in private with you. [Whisper.
Æmi. Pray, sweetheart,
 What pretty youth is that?
Lor. Who, this same chicken?
 He is the son of a great nobleman,
 And my especial friend. His father's gone
 Into the country to survey his lands,
 And let new leases, and left him in charge
 With me till his return.
Æmi. Now, as I live,
 'Tis a well-favour'd lad, and his years promise
 He should have an ability to do,
 And wit to conceal. When I take him single,
 I'll try his disposition. [Aside.
Moc. This, for your sake,
 I'll undertake and execute.
Luc. For my sake!
 You shall not draw me to the fellowship
 Of such a sin.
Moc. I know 'tis pleasing to thee,
 And therefore am resolv'd.
Luc. I may prevent you.
Lor. What, are you resolv'd?
Moc. We are e'en at a point, sir.
Lor. What's more to be done, let's in and consider. [Exeunt.

Enter Antiquary and Petro.

Ant. Well, sirrah! but that I have brought you up, I would cashier you for these reproofs.

Pet. Good sir, consider, 'tis no benefit to me: he is your nephew that I speak for, and 'tis charity to relieve him.

Ant. He is a young knave, and that's crime enough; and he were old in anything, though 'twere in iniquity, there were some reverence to be had of him.

Pet. Why, sir, though he be a young knave, as you term him, yet he is your kinsman, and in distress too.

Ant. Why, sir, and you know again, that 'tis an old custom (which thing I will no way transgress) for a rich man not to look upon any as his kinsman in distress.

Pet. 'Tis an ill custom, sir, and 'twere good 'twere repealed.

Ant. I have something else to look after. Have you disposed of those relics, as I bad you?

Pet. Yes, sir.

Ant. Well, thou dost not know the estimation of what thou hast in keeping. The whole Indies, seeing they are but newly discovered, are not to be valued with them: the very dust that cleaves to one of those monuments is more worth than the ore of twenty mines!

Pet. Yet, by your favour, sir, of what use can they be to you?

Ant. What use! Did not the Signiory build a state-chamber for antiquities? and 'tis the best thing that e'er they did: they are the registers, the chronicles, of the age they were made in, and speak the truth of history better than a hundred of your printed commentaries.

Pet. Yet few are of your belief.

Ant. There's a box of coins within, most of them brass, yet each of them a jewel, miraculously preserved in spite of time or envy; and are of that rarity and excellence that saints may go a pilgrimage to them, and not be ashamed.

Pet. Yet, I say still, what good can they do to you, more than to look on?

Ant. What good, thou brute! And thou wert not worth a penny, the very showing of them were able to maintain thee. Let me see now, and you were put to it, how you could advance your voice in their commendation. Begin.

Pet. All you gentlemen that are affected with such rarities,[317] the world cannot produce the like, snatched from the jaws of time, and wonderfully collected by a studious antiquary, come near and admire.

Ant. Thou say'st right: the limbs of Hippolitus were never so dispersed.

Pet. First, those twelve pictures that you see there, are the portraitures of the Sibyls, drawn five hundred years since by Titianus of Padua, an excellent painter and statuary.

Ant. Very well.

Pet. Then here is Venus all naked, and Cupid by her, on a dolphin: both these were drawn by Apelles of Greece.

Ant. Proceed.

Pet. Then here is Hercules and Antæus; and that Pallas at length in alabaster, with her helmet and feathers; and that's Jupiter, with an eagle at his back.

Ant. Exceeding well!

Pet. Then there's the great silver box that Nero kept his beard in.

Ant. Good again.

Pet. And after decking it with precious stones, did consecrate it to the Capitol.

Ant. That's right.

Pet. And there hangs the net that held Mars and his mistress, while the whole bench of bawdy deities stood spectators of their sport.

Ant. Admirable good!

Pet. Then here is Marius to the middle,[318] and there Cleopatra with a veil over her face; and next to her, Marcus Antonius, the Triumvir; then he with half a nose is Corvinus, and he with ne'er a one is Galba.

Ant. Very sufficient!

Pet. Then here is Vitellius, and there Titus and Vespasian: these three were made by Jacobus Sansovinus the Florentine.

Ant. 'Tis enough.

Pet. Last of all, this is the urn that did contain the ashes of the emperors.

Ant. And each of these worth a king's ransom——

Enter Duke and Leonardo.[319]

Duke. Save you, sir!

Ant. You are welcome, gentlemen.

Duke. I come, sir, a suitor to you. I hear you are possessed of many various and excellent antiquities; and though I am a stranger, I would entreat your gentleness a favour.

Ant. What's that, sir?

Duke. Only that you would vouchsafe me to be a spectator of their curiosity and worth, which courtesy shall engage me yours for ever.

Ant. For their worth I will not promise: 'tis as you please to esteem of them.

Leo. No doubt, sir, we shall ascribe what dignity belongs to them and to you their preserver.

Ant. You speak nobly; and thus much let me tell you, to your edifying: the foolish doating on these present novelties is the cause why so many rare inventions have already perished; and (which is pity) antiquity has not left so much as a foot-step behind her, more than of her vices.

Leo. 'Tis the more pity, sir.

Ant. Then, what raises such vanities amongst us, and sets fantastical fancies awork? What's the reason that so many fresh tricks and new inventions of fashions and diseases come daily over sea, and land upon a man that never durst adventure to taste salt water, but only the neglect of those useful instructions which antiquity has set down.

Duke. You speak oracles, sir.

Ant. Look farther, and tell me what you find better or more honourable than age. Is not wisdom entailed upon it? Take the preheminence of it in everything—in an old friend, in old wine, in an old pedigree.

Leo. All this is certain.

Ant. I confess to you, gentlemen, I must reverence and prefer the precedent times before these, which consumed their wits in experiments: and 'twas a virtuous emulation amongst them, that nothing which should profit posterity should perish.

Leo. It argued a good fatherly providence.

Ant. It did so. There was Lysippus, that spent his whole life in the lineaments of one picture, which I will show you anon: then was there Eudoxus the philosopher,[320] who grew old in the top of a mountain, to contemplate astronomy; whose manuscript I have also by me.

Duke. Have you so, sir?

Ant. I have that, and many more; yet see the preposterous desires of men in these days, that account better of a mass of gold than whatever Apelles or Phidias have invented!

Duke. That is their ignorance.

Ant. Well, gentlemen, because I perceive you are ingenious, I would entreat you to walk in, where I will demonstrate all, and proceed in my admonition. [Exeunt.

Enter Aurelio and Lionel.

Lio. 'Tis well, sir: I am glad you are so soon got free from your bondage.

Aur. Yes, I thank my stars, I am now my own man again; I have slept out my drunken fit of love, and am recovered. You, that are my friends, rejoice at my liberty.

Lio. Why, was it painful to you?

Aur. More tedious than a siege. I wonder what black leaf in the book of fate has decreed that misery upon man—to be in love; it transforms him to a worse monster than e'er Calypso's cup did: [or] a country gentleman among courtiers, or their wives among the ladies. A clown among citizens, nay, an ass among apes, is not half so ridiculous as that makes us. O that I could but come by it, how would I tear it, that never such a witched[321] passion should arise in any human breast again.

Lio. You are too violent in your hate: you should never so fall out with a friend as to admit no hope of reconcilement.

Aur. I'll first be at peace with a serpent. Mark me, if thou hast care of thy time, thy health, thy fame, or thy wits, avoid it.

Lio. I must confess, I have been a little vain that way, yet never so transported, but when I saw a handsomer in place, I could leave the former and cleave to the latter. I was ever constant to beauty.

Aur. Hold thee there still, and if there be a necessity at any time that thou must be mad, let it be a short fury, and away: let not this paltry love hang too long upon the file; be not deluded with delays; for if these she-creatures have once the predominance, there shall be no way to torture thee but they'll find it out, and inflict it without mercy: they'll work on thy disposition, and if thou hast any good-nature, they'll be sure to abuse thee extremely.

Lio. Speak you this in earnest?

Aur. I know not what you call earnest, but before I'll endure that life again, I'll bind myself to a carrier, look out any employment whatever, spend my hours in seeing motions and puppet-plays, rook at bowling-alleys, mould tales, and vent them at ordinaries, carry begging epistles, walk upon projects, transcribe fiddlers' ditties.

Lio. O monstrous!

Aur. But since I have tasted the sweetness of my freedom, thou dost not know what quickness and agility is infused into me. I feel not that weight was wont to clog me, wherever I went; I am all fire and spirit, as if I had been stripped of my mortality! I hear not my thoughts whisper to me, as they were wont—Such a man is your rival; There's an affront, call him to an account; Redeem your mistress's favour, Present her with such a gift, Wait her at such a place—none of these vanities.

Lio. You are happy, sir.

Enter Duke, Petro, and Leonardo.

Pet. Come, gentles, follow me, I'll bring you to them: look you where they are!

Duke. Signior Lionel, I have traced much ground to inquire for you.

Lio. I rest engaged to you for your last night's love, sir.

Duke. And I for your good company. Did you ever see such a blind ruinous tippling-house as we made shift to find out?

Leo. Ay, and the people were as wretched in it: what a mist of tobacco flew amongst them!

Lio. And what a deluge of rheum!

Pet. If the house be so old as you speak of, 'twere good you brought my master into it, and then threw't atop of him; he would never desire to be better buried.

Duke. Well said, Petro.

Lio. Sir, if it be no trouble to you, I would entreat you know my worthy friend here.

Duke. You shall make me happy in any worthy acquaintance.

Pet. Well, Signior Lionel, you are beholden to these gentlemen for their good words unto your uncle for you: they spoke in your behalf as earnestly as e'er did lawyer for his client.

Lio. And what was the issue?

Pet. He is hide-bound: he will part with nothing. There is an old rivelled purse hangs at his side, has not been loosed these twenty years, and, I think, will so continue.

Lio. Why, will his charity stretch to nothing, Petro?

Pet. Yes, he has sent you something.

Lio. What is't?

Pet. A piece of antiquity, sir; 'tis English coin; and if you will needs know, 'tis an old Harry groat.[322]

Lio. Thank him heartily.

Pet. And 'tis the first, he says, that e'er was made of them; and, in his esteem, is worth three double ducats newly stamped.

Lio. His folly may put what price he please upon it, but to me 'tis no more than the value, Petro.

Pet. He says, moreover, that it may stand you in some use and pleasure hereafter, when you grow ancient; for it is worn so thin with often handling, it may serve you for a spectacle.

Lio. Very well.

Duke. 'Twere a good deed to conspire against him; he has a humour easy to be wrought on, and if you'll undertake him, we'll assist you in the performance.

Lio. With all my heart, gentlemen, and I thank you.

Duke. Let us defer it no longer then, but instantly about it.

Lio. A match! Lead on; good wit and fortune guide us. [Exeunt.

FOOTNOTES:

[310] So in Ben Jonson's "Every Man out of his Humour," act iii. sc. 3: "You shall see sweet silent rhetorique and dumb eloquence speaking in her eye; but when she speaks herself, such an anatomy of wit, so fine wiz'd and arteriz'd, that 'tis the goodliest model of pleasure that ever was to behold."

Again, in Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet," act ii. sc. 2—

"She speaks, yet she says nothing; what of that?
 Her eye discourses, I will answer it."

And Pope, in his translation of the "Iliad"—

"Persuasive speech, and more persuasive sighs,
 Silence that spoke, and eloquence of eyes."

The lines in the text, as well as those quoted in the note, were all written subsequent to the publication of "The Complaint of Rosamond," by Samuel Daniel, whence the following stanza is extracted—

"Ah beauty, syren, faire enchaunting good,
 Sweet silent rhetorique of perswading eyes,
 Dombe eloquence, whose power doth move the blood,
 More than the words or wisedome of the wise;
 Still harmonie, whose diapason lies
 Within a brow, the key which passions move,
 To ravish sense, and play a world in love."

[311] Borrowed from Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet," act ii. sc. 2—

"O that I were a glove upon that hand,
 That I might touch that cheek;"

which, Mr Steevens observes, hath been ridiculed by Shirley in "The School of Compliment"—

"O that I were a flea upon that lip," &c.

[312] So in "Love's Labour's Lost," [Dyce 2d edit. ii. 187]—

"And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop."

See a note on this passage [in Dyce's Glossary].

[313] "A compound wine mixed with several kinds of spice."—Blount's "Glossographia." Kneeling to drink healths was formerly the common practice of drinkers. So in Ben Jonson's "Cynthia's Revels," act ii. sc. 2: "He is a great proficient in all the illiberal sciences; as cheating, drinking, swaggering, whoring, and such like; never kneels but to drink healths, nor prays but for a pipe of pudding tobacco."

[314] [Foolish.]

[315] [Old copy, A siren like.]

[316] i.e., Pleases me: a Latin phrase. So Cic. "Ad Att." 13, 21. "Inhibere illud tuum quod valde arriserat, vehementer displicet."

[317] [Old copy, rarities, such.]

[318]

"Et Curios jam dimidios, nasumque minorem
 Corvini, et Galbam auriculis nasoque carentem?"

—Juvenal, Sat. VIII. edit. Ald. 1535.—Steevens.

[319] Of course they are disguised, as appears from a preceding scene, although it is not mentioned here.—Collier.

[320] Of Cnidus. He flourished before the coming of Christ, about 388 years. Petronius Arbiter, in his Satyricon, writes: Eum quidem in cacumine exellissimi montis consenuisse, ut astrorum cœlique motus deprehenderet.

[321] [So the edits., and perhaps rightly, notwithstanding the fact that the word does not occur in the glossaries. At first sight, it would appear to be misprinted for wicked.]

[322] The groats coined in the reign of Henry VIII. are distinguished by different names; as, the old Harry groat, the gun hole groat, the first and second gun-stone groat, &c. The old Harry groat is that which has the head of the king, with a long face and long hair. See Hewit's "Treatise on Moins, Coins, &c.," 1775, p. 69.