University of Virginia Library

SCEN. I.

Ballio, Asotus, Chærilus, and Bomolochus, bearing the coffin of Techmessa; Hyperocus, Thrasimachus bearing the coffin of Tyndarus, a servant.
Ball.
Carry these letters unto Chremylus house.
Give this to Pamphilus, to Evadne that,
And certifie 'um of this sad event.
It will draw teares from theirs—As from my eyes,
Because they are not reall obsequies.

Asot.
So great my grief, so dolorous my disaster,
I know not in what language to expresse it,
Unlesse I should be dumbe!—Sob—sob Asotus,
Sob till thy buttons break, and crack thy bandstrings
With lamentation, and distress'd condoling,
With blubberd eyes behold this spectacle
Of mans mortality.—O my dearest Tyndarus!

Thras.
Learn of us Captains to outface grimme death,
And gaze the lean-chapt monster in the face.

Asot.
I, and I could but come to see his face,
I'de scratch his eyes out.—O the ugly Rogue!
Could none but Tyndarus and fair Techmessa
Serve the vile varlet to lead apes in hell?

Hyper.
I have seen thousands sigh out souls in grones
And yet have laugh'd:—it has been sport to see,
A mangled carcasse broach'd with so many wounds
That life has been in doubt which to get out at.

Asot.
Are crawling vermine of so choice a diet?
Would I were then a worm, freely to feed
On such a delicate and Ambrosian dish:
Fit to be serv'd a banquet to my bed!
But O—Techmessa death has swallowed thee,
Too sweet a sop for such a fiend as he.

Chæ.
Chase hence these showres, for since they both were dead,
Teares will not bribe the fates for a new thread.

Bom.
Inexorable sisters,—Be not sorry:
For Clotho's distaffe will be peremptory!

Asot.
Go then, and dip your pens in gall and vineger
To rail on Mors, cruel—impartiall Mors:
The salvage Tyrant—all-devouring Mors:
The envious, wicked, and malicious Mors:
Mors that respects not valour, Mors that cares not
For wit or learning, Mors that spares not honour:
Mors whom wealth bribes not, Mors whom beauty tempts not.
Thus loudly rail on Mors, that Mors may know it
To be reveng'd on Mors I keep a Poet.

Thras.
If Mors were here, the Skeleton should know
I'de cut his charnell bones to dice, for grieving
Our noble Generall—Courage bon chevalier!