 | The Sad One |  |
Scæn. 1.
Enter Lepido, Drollio.Droll.
A rare Masque no doubt, who contriv'd it?
Lep.
Marry he that says 'tis good, howsoere he has made it,
Signior Multecarni.
Droll.
Who, the Poet Laureat?
Lep.
The same.
Droll.
Oh then 'twere blasphemy to speak against it:
What, are we full of Cupids?
Do we sail upon the vast, and resail,
And fetch the Masque from the clouds?
Lep.
Away Critick, thou never understoodst him.
Droll.
Troth I confess it; but my comfort is,
Others are troubled with the same disease,
'Tis epidemical, Lepido, take't on my word,
And so let's in, and see how things go forward.
Exeunt.
| The Sad One | |