 | The Queene of Corinth |  |
Scæna Prima.
Enter Crates, Vnckle, Tutor, and Onos.Ono.
Thinkes he to carry her and live?
Cra.
It seemes so,
And she will carry him the story sayes.
On.
Well, hum—
Have I for this thou faire but falsest faire
Stretch'd this same simple legge over the Sea?
What though my bashfulnesse, and tender yeares,
Durst ne're reveale my affection to thy teeth?
Deep love ne're tatles, and (say they) loves bit
The deeper dip'd, the sweeter still is it.
Tut.
Oh, see the power of Love: he speakes in ryme.
Cra.
Oh, love will make a Dog howle in rime:
Of all the Lovers yet I have heard or read
This is the strangest: but his Guardian,
And you his Tutor should informe him better,
Thinkes he, that Love is answer'd by instinct?
Tut.
He should make meanes,
For certaine Sir his bashfulnesse undo's him,
For from his Cradle h'had a shamefull face.
Thus walkes he night and day, eates not a bit,
Nor sleepes one jot, but's growne so humorous;
Drinkes Ale, and takes Tobacco as you see;
Weare's a Steeleto at his Codpeece close,
Stabs on the least occasion: stroakes his beard,
Which now he puts i'th posture of a T.
The Roman T. your T. beard is the fashion,
And twifold doth expresse the enamour'd Courtier,
As full as your fork-carving Travellour.
On.
Oh, black clouds of discontent invellop me,
Garters fly off: go Hatband, binde the browes
Of some dull Citizen that feares to ake:
And Leg appeare now in simplicity
Without the trappings of a Courtier:
Burst Buttons, burst, your Bachelor is worm'd.
Cra.
A worm-eaten Batchelor th'art indeed.
On.
And Devill melancholly possesses me now.
Unc.
Crosse him not in this fit I advise you Sir.
On.
Dye crimson Rose, that didst adorne these cheeks,
For ytch of love is now broke forth on me.
Unc.
Poore Boy, 'tis true: his wrists and hands are scabby.
On.
Burne eyes out in your sockets, sinck and stink:
Teeth I will pick ye to the very bones,
Hang haire like Hemp, or like the Isling Curs,
For never Powder, nor the Crisping-iron
Shall touch these dangling locks—oh—Ruby lips,
Love hath to you been like Wine-vinegar,
Now you look wan and pale, lips, ghosts ye are,
And my disgrace sharper than Mustard-seed.
Cra.
How like a Chaundler he do's vent his passions,
Risum teneatis?
On.
Well sung the Poet,
Love is a golden bubo, full of Dreames:
That ripen'd breakes, and fills us with extreames.
Tut.
A gold buble, pupill, Oh grosse solæcisme
To chaster eares, that understand the Latine.
On.
I will not be corrected now:
I am in love, revenge is now the Cud
That I do chaw: Ile challenge him.
Cra.
I marry Sir.
Unc.
Your Honour bids you Nephew, on, and prosper.
On.
But none will beare it from me, times are dangerous.
Cra.
Carry it your selfe man.
On.
Tutor, your counsell: Ile do nothing Sir
Without him.
Unc.
This may rid thee, (valiant Cuz)
Whom I have kept this forty yeare my Ward:
Faine would I have his state, and now of late
He did enquire at Ephesus for his age,
But the Church Booke being burnt with Dians Temple
He lost his ayme: I have try'd to famish him,
Marry he'l live o' stones: and then for Poysons,
He is an Antidote 'gainst all of 'em;
He sprung from Mithridates; he is so dry and hot,
He will eat Spiders faster then a Monkey:
His Maw (unhurt) keeps Quicksilver like a bladder,
The largest dosse of Camphire, Opium,
Harmes not his braine; I think his Skul's as empty
As a suckt Egge; Vitrioll, and Oyle of Tartar
He will eat tosts of: Henbane I am sure
And Hemblock I have made his Pot-hearbs often.
Cra.
If he refuse you, yours is then the honour:
If he accept, he being so great, you may
Crave both to chuse the Weapon, time, and place,
Which may be ten yeares hence, and Calicut,
Or underneath the lyne to avoid advantage.
On.
I am resolved.
Tut.
By your favour Pupill,
Whence shall this challenge rise? for you must ground it
On some such fundamentall base, or matter
As now the Gentry set their lives upon.
Did you ere cheat him at some Ordinary,
And durst he say so, and be angry? if thus,
Then you must challenge him: hath he call'd your whore,
Whore; though she be (beside yours) twenty mens?
Your honour, reputation is touch'd then,
And you must challenge him: Has he deny'd
On thirty damne me's to accommodate money,
Though he have broke threescore before to you?
Here you must challenge him: Durst he ever shun
To drink two pots of Ale wi' ye? or to wench,
Though weighty businesse otherwise importun'd?
He is a proud Lord,
And you may challenge him: Has he familiarly
Dislik'd your yellow Starch, or said your Dublet
Was not exactly frenchifi'd? or that, that report
In faire tearmes was untrue? or drawn your Sword,
Cry'd 'twas ill mounted? Has he given the lye
In circle, or oblique, or semy-circle,
Or direct paralell? you must challenge him.
On.
He never gave my direct apparrell the lye in's life.
Tut.
But for the crown of all, Has he refus'd
To pledge your Mistris health though he were sick?
Enter Neanthes and Page.
And crav'd your pardon? you must challenge him,
There's no avoyding: one or both must drop.
On.
Exquisite Tutor.
Nean.
Crates, I have sought you long, what make you here
Fooling with these three farthings, while the Towne
Is all in uproare, and the Prince our Master
(Ceas'd by Leonidas, and Agenor) carried
And Prisoner kept i'the Castle, flanckes
The west part of the City, where they vow
To hold him, till your Brother, Lord Euphanes
Be rendr'd to 'em, with his life to satisfie
The Rape, by him suspected to Merione?
16
Pawning her knowledge for his innocency,
And dares 'em do their worst on Prince Theanor,
The whole State's in combustion.
Cra.
Fatall Ring.
Unc.
What will become of us?
Nea.
And she hath given Commission to Euphanes
And Conon (who have leavied men already)
With violence to surprize the Towre, and take 'em.
What will you doe?
Cra.
Along wi' ye, and prevent
A further mischiefe: Gentlemen, our intents
We must defer: you are the Princes followers.
Nea.
Will ye walk with us?
Unc.
You shall pardon us.
Tut.
We are his followers afarre off you know.
And are contented to continue so.
Exit Crates and Neant.
Onos.
Sir Boy.
Page.
Sir Foole? a Challenge to my Lord?
How dar'st thou, or thy ambs**ace here think of him,
Ye Crow-pick'd heads, which your thin shoulders beare
As doe the poles on Corinth Bridge the Traitors:
Why you three Ninc-pins, you talke of my Lord,
And Challenges? you shall not need: come draw,
His Page is able to swindge three such whelpes:
Unckle, why stand ye off: long-man advance.
Onos.
S'light, what have we done Tutor?
Tut.
He is a Boy,
And we may run away with honour.
Page.
That ye shall not,
And being a Boy I am fitter to encounter
A Childe in Law as you are, under twenty:
Thou Sot, thou three-score Sot, and that's a Childe
Againe I grant you.
Unc.
Nephew, here's an age:
Boyes are turn'd men, and men are Children.
Page.
Away you Pezants with your bought Gentry;
Are not you he, when your fellow Passengers,
Your last transportment being assayl'd by a Galley
Hid your selfe i'the Cabbin: and the Fight done
Peep'd above Hatches, and cry'd, Have we taken,
Or are we tane? Come, I doe want a slipper,
But this shall serve: Sweare all as I would have you,
Or I will call some dozen brother Pages,
(They are not farre off I am sure) and we will blancket
You untill you pisse againe.
All.
Nay, we will sweare Sir.
Page.
'Tis your best course:
First, you shall sweare never to name my Lord,
Or heare him nam'd hereafter, but bare-headed.
Next, to begin his health in every place,
And never to refuse to pledge it, though
You surfeit to the death. Lastly, to hold
The poorest, litlest Page in reverence;
To think him valianter, and a better Gentleman
Then you three stamp'd together: and to give him
Wine and Tobacco wheresoe're you meet,
And the best meat if he can stay.
All.
We sweare it loyally.
Page.
Then I dismisse you
True Leigmen to the Pantaffle:
I had more Articles, but I have businesse
And cannot stay now: so adieu deare Monsieur,
Tres nobles & tres puissant.
Unc.
Adieu Monsieur.
On.
A vostre service & commaundement.
Tut.
I told you Pupill, you'ld repent this foolery.
On.
Who, I repent? you are mistaken Tutor,
I ne're repented any thing yet in my life,
And scorne to begin now: Come, let's be melancholly.
Exeunt.
| The Queene of Corinth | |