University of Virginia Library

Scen. 4.

Agroicus.
Rosc.

This is Agroicus, a rustique clownish fellow, whose
discourse is all Country; An extreame of urbanity, whereby
you may observe there is a vertue in jesting.

Agro.

They talke of witty discourse, and fine conceits,
and I ken not what a deale of prittle prattle would
make a Cat pisse to heare 'em. Cannot they be content
with their Grannams English? They thinke they talke
learnedly, when I had rather heare our brindled curre
howle, or Sow grunt. They must be breaking of jests
with a murraine, when I had as live heare 'em breake
wind Sir reverence! My zonne Dick is a pretty Bookish
Scholar of his age, God blesse him; he can write and
read, and makes bonds, and bills, and hobligations,
God save all. But by'r lady, if I wotted it would make
him such a Iacksauce, as to have more wit then his
vore-vathers, he should have learn'd nothing for old
Agroicus, but to keepe a Tally. There is a new trade

lately come up to be a vocation, I wis not what; they
call 'em—Boets, a new name for Beggars I think, since
the statute against Gypsies. I would not have my zon
Dick one of those Boets for the best Pig in my stye by
the mackins: Boets? heau'n shield him, and zend him
to be a good Varmer; if he can cry hy, ho, gee, hut, gee,
ho, it is better I trow then being a Poet. Boets? I had
rather zee him remitted to the jayle, and haue his
twelve God-vathers, good men and true contemne
him to the Gallowes; and there see him vairely persecuted.
There is Bomolochus one of these Boets, now a
bots take all the red-nose tribe of 'em for Agroicus!
he does so abuse his betters! well 'twas a good world,
when I virst held the Plow!

Col.
They car'd not then so much for speaking well
As to mean honest, and in you still lives
The good simplicity of the former times:
When to doe well was Rhetorique, not to talke.
The tongue disease of Court spreads her infections
Through the whole Kingdome, flattery, that was wont
To be confin'd within the virge, is now
Grown Epidemicall, for all our thoughts
Are borne between our lips: The heart is made
A stranger to the tongue; as if it us'd
A language that she never understood.
What is it to be witty in these daies,
But to be bawdy, or prophane, at least
Abusive? Wit is grown a petulant waspe,
And stings she knows not whom, nor where, nor why;
Spues vinegar, and gall on all she meets
Without distinction—buyes laughter with the losse
Of reputation, father, kinsman, friend;
Hunts Ord'naries only to deliver
The idle Timpanies of a windy braine,
That beats and throbs above the paine of child-bed,
Till every eare she meets be made a midwife
To her light Bastard-issue, how many times
Bomolochus sides, and shoulders ake, and groane!
Hee's so witty—here he comes—away—

Agro.
His wit is dangerous and I dare not stay.

Exit.