Every Man in His Humour Part 28

PROS. Oh, he writes not in that height of style.

CLEM. No: we'll come a step or two lower then.

"From Catadupa and the banks of Nile, Where only breeds your monstrous crocodile, Now are we purposed for to fetch our style."

PROS. Oh, too far-fetch'd for him still, master Doctor.

CLEM. Ay, say you so? let's intreat a sight of his vein then.

PROS. Signior, master Doctor desires to see a sight of your vein, nay, you must not deny him.

CLEM. What, all this verse, body of me, he carries a whole realm; a commonwealth of paper in his hose, let's see some of his subjects.

"Unto the boundless ocean of thy beauty, Runs this poor river, charg'd with streams of zeal, Returning thee the tribute of my duty: Which here my youth, my plaints, my love reveal."

Good! is this your own invention?

MAT. No, sir, I translated that out of a book, called "Delia."

CLEM. Oh, but I would see some of your own, some of your own.

MAT. Sir, here's the beginning of a sonnet I made to my mistress.

CLEM. That, that: who? to Madonna Hesperida, is she your mistress?

PROS. It pleaseth him to call her so, sir.

CLEM. "In summer time, when Phoebus' golden rays."

You translated this too, did you not?

PROS. No, this is invention; he found it in a ballad.

MAT. Faith sir, I had most of the conceit of it out of a ballad indeed.

CLEM. Conceit, fetch me a couple of torches, sirrah, I may see the conceit: quickly! it's very dark!

GIU. Call you this poetry?

LOR. JU. Poetry? nay, then call blasphemy, religion; Call devils, angels; and sin, piety: Let all things be preposterously transchanged.

LOR. SE. Why, how now, son! what are you startled now?

Hath the brize p.r.i.c.k'd you, ha? go to; you see How abjectly your poetry is rank'd in general opinion.

LOR. JU. Opinion, O G.o.d, let gross opinion sink and be d.a.m.n'd As deep as Barathrum, If it may stand with your most wish'd content, I can refell opinion and approve The state of poesy, such as it is, Blessed, eternal, and most true divine: Indeed, if you will look on Poesy As she appears in many, poor and lame, Patch'd up in remnants and old worn rags, Half starved for want of her peculiar food: Sacred invention, then I must confirm Both your conceit and censure of her merit, But view her in her glorious ornaments, Attired in the majesty of art, Set high in spirit, with the precious taste Of sweet philosophy, and which is most, Crown'd with the rich traditions of a soul That hates to have her dignity profaned With any relish of an earthly thought: Oh, then how proud a presence doth she bear.

Then is she like herself, fit to be seen Of none but grave and consecrated eyes: Nor is it any blemish to her fame, That such lean, ignorant, and blasted wits, Such brainless gulls, should utter their stol'n wares With such applauses in our vulgar ears: Or that their slubber'd lines have current pa.s.s From the fat judgments of the mult.i.tude, But that this barren and infected age Should set no difference 'twixt these empty spirits And a true poet: than which reverend name Nothing can more adorn humanity.

[ENTER WITH TORCHES.]

CLEM. Ay, Lorenzo, but election is now governed altogether by the influence of humour, which, instead of those holy flames that should direct and light the soul to eternity, hurls forth nothing but smoke and congested vapours, that stifle her up, and bereave her of all sight and motion. But she must have a store of h.e.l.lebore given her to purge these gross obstructions: oh, that's well said, give me thy torch, come, lay this stuff together. So, give fire! there, see, see, how our poet's glory s.h.i.+nes brighter and brighter, still, still it increaseth, oh, now it's at the highest, and now it declines as fast: you may see, gallants, "sic transit gloria mundi." Well now, my two signior outsides, stand forth, and lend me your large ears, to a sentence, to a sentence: first, you, Signior, shall this night to the cage, and so shall you, sir, from thence to-morrow morning, you, Signior, shall be carried to the market cross, and be there bound: and so shall you, sir, in a large motley coat, with a rod at your girdle; and you in an old suit of sackcloth, and the ashes of your papers (save the ashes, sirrah) shall mourn all day, and at night both together sing some ballad of repentance very piteously, which you shall make to the tune of "Who list to lead and a soldier's life." Sirrah bill-man, embrace you this torch, and light the gentlemen to their lodgings, and because we tender their safety, you shall watch them to-night, you are provided for the purpose, away, and look to your charge with an open eye, sirrah.

BOB. Well, I am arm'd in soul against the worst of fortune.

MAT. Faith, so should I be, an I had slept on it.

PET. I am arm'd too, but I am not like to sleep on it.

MUS. Oh, how this pleaseth me.

[EXEUNT.]

CLEM. Now, Signior Th.o.r.ello, Giuliano, Prospero, Biancha.

STEP. And not me, sir.

CLEM. Yes, and you, sir: I had lost a sheep an he had not bleated, I must have you all friends: but first a word with you, young gallant, and you, lady.

GIU. Well, brother Prospero, by this good light that s.h.i.+nes here, I am loth to kindle fresh coals, but an you had come in my walk within these two hours I had given you that you should not have clawed off again in haste, by Jesus, I had done it, I am the arrant'st rogue that ever breathed else, but now beshrew my heart if I bear you any malice in the earth.

PROS. Faith, I did it but to hold up a jest, and help my sister to a husband, but, brother Th.o.r.ello, and sister, you have a spice of the jealous yet, both of you, (in your hose, I mean,) come, do not dwell upon your anger so much, let's all be smooth foreheaded once again.

THOR. He plays upon my forehead, brother Giuliano, I pray you tell me one thing I shall ask you: is my forehead any thing rougher than it was wont to be?

GIU. Rougher? your forehead is smooth enough, man.

THO. Why should he then say, be smooth foreheaded, Unless he jested at the smoothness of it?

And that may be, for horn is very smooth; So are my brows, by Jesu, smooth as horn!

BIA. Brother, had he no haunt thither, in good faith?

PROS. No, upon my soul.

BIA. Nay, then, sweet-heart: nay, I pray thee, be not angry, good faith, I'll never suspect thee any more, nay, kiss me, sweet muss.

THO. Tell me, Biancha, do not you play the woman with me.

BIA. What's that, sweet-heart?

THO. Dissemble.

BIA. Dissemble?

THO. Nay, do not turn away: but say i'faith was it not a match appointed 'twixt this old gentleman and you?

BIA. A match?

THO. Nay, if it were not, I do not care: do not weep, I pray thee, sweet Biancha, nay, so now! by Jesus, I am not jealous, but resolved I have the faithful'st wife in Italy.

"For this I find, where jealousy is fed, Horns in the mind are worse than on the head.

See what a drove of horns fly in the air, Wing'd with my cleansed and my credulous breath: Watch them, suspicious eyes, watch where they fall, See, see, on heads that think they have none at all.

Oh, what a plenteous world of this will come, When air rains horns, all men be sure of some:

CLEM. Why that's well, come then: what say you, are all agreed? doth none stand out?