 | The Jealous Lovers |  |
SCEN. II.
Asotus, Ballio.Asot.
VVell, go thy waies, I may have a thousand fathers,
And never have the like:—Well pockets, well,
Be not so sad; though you are heavy now,
You shall be lighter.
Ball.
Pupill, I must tell you,
I do repent the losse of those good houres,
And would call back the study I have ta'ne
In morall Alchymie, to extract a Gentleman
Almost out of a dunghill. Still do I see
So much of peasant in you?
Asot.
Angry, Tutour?
Ball.
Teem'd my Invention all this while for this?
5
After so many and such painfull throe's?
Another sinne like this, and be transform'd
Meere clown again.
Asot.
The reason, deare Instructour.
Ball.
Have I not open'd to you all the mysteries,
The precise rules, and axiomes of Gentilitie?
And all methodicall? Yet you still so dull,
As not to know you print eternall stains
Upon your honour, and corrupt your bloud
(That cost me many a minute the refining)
By carrying your own money? See these Breeches,
A pair of worthy, rich, and reverent Breeches,
Lost to the fashion by a lump of drosse.
I'le be your bailiffe rather.
Asot.
Out infection.
Ball.
Who, that beheld those hose, could e're suspect
They would be guilty of mechanick mettall?
What's your vocation? Trade you for your self?
Or else whose Journeyman, or Prentice are you?
Asot.
Pardon me, Tutour: for I do repent,
And do protest hereafter I will never
Weare any thing that jingles—but my spurres.
Ball.
This is gentile.
Asot.
Away mechanick trash:
I'le kick thee sonne of earth:—Thus will I kick thee,—
For torturing my poore father—Dirt avant—
I do abandon thee.
Ball.
Blest be thy generous tongue.
But who comes here? This office must be mine:
I'le make you fair account of every drachme.
Asot.
I'le not endure the trouble of account:
Say all is spent,—and then we must have more.
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