University of Virginia Library

Scene. IV.

Peni-boy. Se.
Broker. Cymbal.
How now? I thinke I was borne vnder Hercules starre!
He is started with Broker's comming back.
Nothing but trouble and tumult to oppresse me?
Why come you backe? where is your charge?

Bro.
I ha' brought
A Gentleman to speake with you?

P. Se.
To speake with me?
You know 'tis death for me to speake with any man.
What is he? set me a chaire.

Bro.
He's the Master
Of the great Office.

P. Se.
What?

Bro.
The Staple of Newes,
A mighty thing, they talke Six thousand a yeere.

P. Se.
Well bring your sixe in. Where ha' you left Pecunia?

Bro.
Sir, in Apollo, they are scarce set.

P. Se.
Bring sixe.

Bro.
Here is the Gentleman.

P. Se.
He must pardon me,
I cannot rise, a diseas'd man.

Cym.
By no meanes, Sir,
Respect your health, and ease.

P. Se.
It is no pride in me!
But paine, paine; what's your errand, Sir, to me?
Hee sends Broker backe.
Broker, returne to your charge, be Argus-eyed,
Awake, to the affaire you haue in hand,
Serue in Apollo, but take heed of Bacchus.
Goe on, Sir.

Cym.
I am come to speake with you.

P. Se.
'Tis paine for me to speake, a very death,
But I will heare you!

Cym.
Sir, you haue a Lady,
That soiournes with you.

P. Se.
Ha? I am somewhat short
He pretends infirmity.
In my sense too—

Cym.
Pecunia.

P. Se.
O' that side,
Very imperfect, on—

Cym.
Whom I would draw
Oftner to a poore Office, I am Master of—

P. Se.
My hearing is very dead, you must speake quicker.

Cym.
Or, if it please you, Sir, to let her soiourne
In part with me; I haue a moyety
We will diuide, halfe of the profits.

P. Se.
Ha?
I heare you better now, how come they in?
Is it a certaine businesse, or a casuall?
For I am loth to seeke out doubtfull courses,
Runne any hazardous paths, I loue streight waies,
A iust, and vpright man! now all trade totters.
The trade of money, is fall'n, two i'the hundred.
That was a certaine trade, while th'age was thrifty,
And men good husbands, look'd vnto their stockes,
Had their mindes bounded; now the publike Riot
Prostitutes all, scatters away in coaches,
In foot-mens coates, and waiting womens gownes,
They must haue veluet hanches (with a pox)
Hee talkes vehemently and aloud.
Now taken vp, and yet not pay the vse;
Bate of the vse? I am mad with this times manners.

Cym.
You said e'en now, it was death for you to speake.

P. Se.
I, but an anger, a iust anger, (as this is)
Puts life in man. Who can endure to see
The fury of mens gullets, and their groines?
It mou'd more and more.
What fires, what cookes, what kitckins might be spar'd?
What Stewes, Ponds, Parks, Coupes, Garners, Magazines?
What veluets, tissues, scarfes, embroyderies?
And laces they might lacke? They couet things—
Superfluous still; when it were much more honour
They could want necessary! What need hath Nature
Of siluer dishes? or gold chamber-pots?
Of perfum'd napkins? or a numerous family,
To see her eate? Poore, and wise she, requires
Meate onely; Hunger is not ambitious:
Say, that you were the Emperour of pleasures,
The great Dictator of fashions, for all Europe,
And had the pompe of all the Courts, and Kingdomes,
Laid forth vnto the shew? to make your selfe
Gaz'd, and admir'd at? You must goe to bed,
And take your naturall test: then, all this vanisheth.
Your brauery was but showen; 'twas not possest:
While it did boast it selfe, it was then perishing.

Cym.
This man has healthfull lungs.

P. Se.
All that excesse
Appear'd as little yours, as the Spectators.
It scarce fills vp the expectation
Of a few houres, that entertaines mens liues.

Cym.
He has the monopoly of sole-speaking.
He is angry.
Why, good Sir? you talke all.

P. Se.
Why should I not?
Is it not vnder mine owne roofe? my feeling?

Cym.
But I came hete to talk with you.

P. S.
Why, an' I will not
Talke with you, Sir? you are answer'd, who sent for you?

Bids him get out of his house,
Cym.
Nobody sent for me—

P. Se.
But you came, why then
Goe, as you came, heres no man holds you, There,
There lies your way, you see the doore.

Cym.
This's strange!

P. Se.
'Tis my ciuility, when I doe not rellish
The party, or his businesse. Pray you be gone, Sir.
I'll ha' no venter in your Ship, the Office
Your Barke of Six, if 'twere sixteene, good, Sir.

Cym.
You are a rogue.

P. Se.
I thinke I am Sir, truly.

Cymbal railes at him.
Cym.
A Rascall, and a money-bawd.

P. Se.
My surnames:

Cym.
A wretched Rascall!

P. S.
You will ouerflow—
He ieeres him.
And spill all.

Cym.
Caterpiller, moath,
Horse-leach, and dung-worme—

P. Se.
Still you lose your labor.
I am a broken vessell, all runnes out:
A shrunke old Dryfat. Fare you well, good Sixe.