University of Virginia Library

SCE. II.

Enter Sebastus. Constantinus.
Const.
Now good my Lord—'Has been an antient servant
Unto our Family—'Tis the least I can:
Pray let him have it.—

Seb.
How was your Lordship saying?
I did not mind you well—my head's so full:

(scratches)
Con.

O'th' simples (Aside)
come I beg but seldom;
shall I send him to kiss your hands?

Seb.
Matters of State
Beat all things out;—

Con.
No—'tis your oval Crown
Aside
Lets nothing in.—

Seb.
But good my Lord, what is't?
It must be somewhat more than in my power,
When you're deny'd.—

Con.
Troth 'tis a very nothing.

Seb.
Why then—you have it—is your Lordship pleas'd.

Con.
Hah!—yours is pleasant;—'tis a little odd thing.
The Major-domo to his Majesty's Bears.

Seb.
Certain my Lord it is too mean a place,
And he might find much better—what is't worth?

Con.
not much above a hundred crowns a year,
Besides the blessing that attends an Office.

Seb.
Stay! Major-Domo—Let me see—I doubt
Somewhat was done in't lately (scratches)
Oh! I have't.
Alas my Lord 'tis gon;—dispos'd in troth:
Now I'm so sorry:

Con.
But to whom?—or how?

Seb.
Why—I'm mistaken, or the Emperor gave it
To (scratches)
an old servant of his Fathers:—

Con.
Strange!
Eagles do seldom stoop so low:—

Seb.
Then 'twas
My wife;—and like enough it might be so.
But there are other things as good, or better,
And might be found if men were diligent.
Trust me I am so vext,—I'll tell my Wife
What a displeasure she hath done your Lordship.

Exit.
Con.
Your Lordship's.—Gon! dispos'd!—my life this fellow
Would sell his soul, were any man so mad
To bid him money for't—Was this a thing
To be believ'd?—the Devil of such a servant,
Or Office, I yet ever heard, or dreamt;
But now I see, 'tis good to try ones friends,
E're a man needs 'em;—And the same have I
The nature of this beast—Now is he gone
To hunt a chapman;—but the scent (beloved)
Will be cold, e're you light on one—Dull Greece!
Where is thy soul? What magick? or what fate
Has dampt thy spirits? canst thou live, yet be
Bull'd by this Urchin? Canst thou breath, yet suffer
Such a slave ride thee? such a Tinsel bauble!
No—know fond man, though Greece be fast asleep.
Her Genius wakes, nor shall thy formal nothing,
Brave it much longer;—dirt thou art, and dirt
Shall be thy last, and sudden too;—'tis done,
The better half, what is once well begun.

Exit.