Deli. There's your money, tell it: and, brother, I am glad I met with so good occasion to shew my love to you.

Fung. I will study to deserve it in good truth, an I live.

Deli. What, is it right?

George. Ay, sir, and I thank you.

Fal. O, master Fastidious, what pity is it to see so sweet a man as you are, in so sour & place! [Kisses him.

Cor. As upon her lips, does she mean? Mit. O, this is to be imagined the Counter, belike. Fast. Troth, fair lady, 'tis first the pleasure of the fates, and next of the constable, to have it so but I am patient, and indeed comforted the more in your kind visit.

Fal. Nay, you shall be comforted in me more than this, if you please, sir. I sent you word by my brother, sir, that my husband laid to 'rest you this morning; I know not whether you received it or no.

Fast. No, believe it, sweet creature, your brother gave me no such intelligence.

Fal. O, the lord!

Fung. Let me have a capon's leg sayed, now the reckoning is paid.

George. You shall, sir.

Enter MACILENTE.

Maci. Where's signior Deliro?

Deli. Here, Macilente.

Fast. No, sweet mistress. Why are you ir. this passion?

Fal. O lord, master Fastidious, if you knew how I took up my husband to-day, when he said

Deli. Ay, marry have I.

that persuaded him to it, the scholar there, (who, on my conscience, loves you now,) and

Deli. In the Counter!

Maci. 'Tis true, sir, committed for the stir here to-night. Now would I have you send your brother home afore, with the report of this your kindness done him, to his sister, which will so pleasingly possess her, and out of his mouth too, that in the meantime you may clap your action on Brisk, and your wife, being in so happy a mood, cannot entertain it ill, by any means.

Deli. "Tis very true, she cannot, indeed, I think. Maci. Think! why, 'tis past thought; you shall never meet the like opportunity, I assure you. Deli. I will do it. Brother, pray you go home afore, (this gentleman and I have some private business,) and tell my sweet wife. I'll come presently.

Fung. I will, brother.

Maci. And, signior, acquaint your sister, how liberally, and out of his bounty, your brother has used you, (do you see?) made you a man of good reckoning; redeem'd that you never were possest of, credit; gave you as gentlemanlike terms as might be; found no fault with your coming behind the fashion; nor nothing.

Fung. Nay, I am out of those humors now. Maci. Well, if you be out, keep your distance, and be not made a shot-clog any more.Come, signior, let's make haste.

[Exeunt.

brother; and how I gave him four sovereigns for his pains and now, how I came running out hither without man or boy with me, so soon as I heard on't; you'd say I were in a passion indeed. Your keeper, for God's sake! O, master Brisk, as 'tis in Euphues, Hard is the choice, when one is compelled either by silence to die with grief, or by speaking to live with shame.

Fast. Fair lady, I conceive you, and may this kiss assure you, that where adversity hath, as it wère, contracted, prosperity shall not Od's me! your husband.

Enter DELIRO and MACILENTE. Fal. O me!

Deli. Ay! Is it thus?

Maci. Why, how now, signior Deliro! has the wolf seen you, ha? Hath Gorgon's head made marble of you?

Deli. Some planet strike me dead!

Maci. Why, look you, sir, I told you, you might have suspected this long afore, had you pleased, and have saved this labor of admiration now, and passion, and such extremities as this frail lump of flesh is subject unto. Nay, why do you not doat now, signior? methinks you should say it were some enchantment, deceptio visus, or so, ha! If you could persunde yourself it were a dream now. 'twere excellent:

}

BEN JONSON.

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?

PHILAUTIA. MORIA.

Cos.

GELAIA.

PHRONESIS, THAUMA, TIME,

3 Child. No, we scorn treachery. 2 Child. Which cut shall speak it? 3 Child. The shortest.

Mutes.

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 1 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 revenga 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 playbooks 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 endeavor 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; Argurian, 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, &c. 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 Argurian, who is fullen 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 neighboring 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 show us the happiness of his memory. I thought at first he would have plaid the ignorant critic with every thing, along as he had gone; I expected some such device. 3 Child. O, you shall see me do that rarely; lend me thy cloak.

2 Child. Lend it him, lend it him. 1 Child. Well, you have sworn.

[Gives him the clouk. 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 1 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· act like so many wrens or pismires fifth part of a good face amongst them all. And then their music is abominable stretch a man's ears worse than ten and their ditties - most lamentable things, like the pitiful fellows that make them · poets. By this vapor, an 'twere not for tobacco I think

They do not the

able to -pillories

the very stench of 'em would poison me, 1 should not dare to come in at their gates · man were better visit fifteen jails or two of hospitals

A or a dozen 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 theone 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 1 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 Well, 'tis but our hard fortune!

we.

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

of this fair society here that I am to speak, at leas

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 hackneyman, 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 umbræ 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, Jach, you have put me down: I would I knew how to get off with any indifferent grace! here, take your cloak, and promise Bome 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 labors close,
As loth to prostitute their virgin-strain.
To everg 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 jawe.
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 honor'd bays,
About his poesy; which, he knows, affords
Words, above action; matter, above words

ACT I.

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. Av.

Cup. Farewell.
Mer. Stay, Cupid.

Cup. Not in your company, Hermes, excep 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 tho 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 a table with a trencher, warble upon a crowd a little, and fill out nectar when Ganymede's away? one that sweeps the gods' 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, negocia tions, &c. 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