University of Virginia Library

Scen. 5.

Bomolocus.
Rosc.

This is the other extreame of Vrbanity; Bomolocus
a fellow conceited of his own wit, though indeed it be nothing
but the base dreggs of scandall, and a lumpe of most
vile and loathsome scurrility.

Bird.
I, this is he we lookt for all the while!
Scurrility! here she hath her impious throne,
Here lies her heathenish dominion,
In this most impious cell of corruption;
For 'tis a Purgatory, a meere Limbo,
Where the black Divell and her damme Scurrility
Doe rule the rost; fowle Princes of the aire!
Scurrility! that is he that throweth scandalls,
Soweth, and throweth scandalls, as 'twere durt
Even in the face of holinesse, and devotion.
His presence is contagious, like a dragon
He belches poison forth, poison of the pit,
Brimstone, hellish and sulphureous poyson:
I will not stay, but fly as farre as zeale
Can hurry me—the roofe will fall and braine me,
If I endure to heare his blasphemies,
His gracelesse blasphemies.

Rosc.
He shall vent none here;
But stay, and see how justly we have us'd him.

Flow.
Stay brother, I doe find the spirit grow strong.

Col.
Haile sacred wit!—Earth breeds not Baies enough
To crowne thy spatious merit.

Bomo.
Oh—Oh—Oh.

Col.
Cratinus, Eupolis, Aristophanes,
Or whatsoever other wit did give
Old Comedies the raines, and let her loose
To stigmatize what brow she pleas'd with slander
Of people, Prince, Nobility—All must yeeld
To this Triumphant braine!

Bomo.
Oh—Oh—Oh.

Col.
They say you'l loose a friend before a jest;
'Tis true, there's not a jest that comes from you,
That is the true Minerva of this braine,
But is of greater value then a world
Of friends, were every prayre of men we meet
A Pylades and Orestes.

Bomo.
Oh—Oh—Oh.

Col.
Some say you will abuse your Father too,
Rather then loose the opinion of your wit,
Who would not that has such a wit as yours?
'Twere better twenty Parents were expos'd
To scorne and laughter, then the simplest thought
Or least conceit of yours, should dye abortive,
Or perish a braine-Embrio.

Bomo.
Oh—oh—oh—

Col.
How's this? that tongue growne silent that syrens
Stood still to admire?

Bomo.
Oh—oh—oh.—

Cola.
Twere better that the spheares should loose their harmony,
And all the Choristers of the wood grow hoarse!
What wolfe hath spied you first?

Bomo.
Oh—oh—oh.—

Cola.
Sure Hermes envying that there was on earth
An eloquence more then his, has struck you dumb!
Malitious deitie!

Bomo.
Oh—oh—oh—oh.—

Cola.
Goe in sir there's a Glasse that will restore
That tongue, whose sweetnesse Angels might adore.

Bomo.
Oh—oh—oh—oh—oh—oh—oh—

Exit.
Rosc.
Thus Sir you see how we have put a gagge
In the licentious mouth of base scurrility;
He shall not Ibis-like purge upward here,
To infect the place with pestilentiall breath;
Wee'le keepe him tongue-tide; you and all I promise
By Phœbus and his daughters, whose chast zones
Were never yet by impure hands untied
Our language shall flow chast, nothing sound here
That can give just offence to a strict eare.

Bird.
This gagge hath wrought my good opinion of you

Flow.
I begin to think 'em lawfull recreations.

Colax.
Now there's none left here, wheron to practise,
I'le flatter my deare selfe—o that my skill
Had but a body, that I might embrace it,
Kisse it, and hugge it, and beget a brood,
Another brood of pretty skills upon it!
Were I divided I would hate all beauties,
And grow enamour'd with my other halfe!
Selfe-love, Narcissus, had not been a fault,
Hadst thou, instead of such a beauteous face,
Had but a braine like mine: I can guild vice,
And praise it into Alchymie, till it goe
For perfect gold, and cozen almost the touchstone.
I can perswade a toad into an oxe,
Till swel'd too bigge with my Hyperboles
She burst asunder; and 'tis vertues name
Lends me a maske to scandalize her selfe.
Vice, if it be no more, can nothing doe;
That art is great makes vertue guilty too.
I have such strange varieties of colours,
Such shift of shapes, blew Proteus sure begot me
On a Camelion, and I change so quick
That I suspect my mother did conceive me,
As they say Mares doe, on some wind or other.
I'le peepe to see how many fooles I made
With a report of a miraculous Glasse.
—Heaven blesse me, I am ruin'd! o my braine
Witty to my undoing, I have jested
My selfe to an eternall misery.
I see leane hunger with her meager face
Ride poast to overtake me, I doe prophesie
A Lent immortall: Phœbus I could curse
Thee and thy brittle gifts, Pandora's box
Compar'd with this might be esteem'd a blessing.
The Glasse which I conceiv'd a fabulous humour
Is to the height of wonder prov'd a truth.
The two Extreames of every Vertue there
Beholding how they either did exceed,
Or want of just proportion, joyn'd together,
And are reduc'd into a perfect Meane:
As when the skilfull and deep learn'd Physitian
Does take two different poisons, one that's cold
The other in the same degree of heate,
And blend's them both to make an Antidote;
Or as the Lutanist takes Flats and Sharpes,
And out of those so dissonant notes, does strike
A ravishing Harmony. Now there is no vice
'Tis a hard world for Colax: What shift now?
Dyscolus doth expect me—since this age
Is growne too wise to entertaine a Parasite,
I'le to the Glasse, and there turne vertuous too,
Still strive to please, though not to flatter you.

Bird.
There is good use indeed-la to be made
From their Conversion.

Flow.
Very good insooth—la
And edifying.

Rosci.
Give your eyes some respite.
You know already what our Vices be,
In the next Act you shall our Vertues see.

Exeunt.