University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Enter DINACIUM, with a fishing-rod, books, and a basket in his hand.
Din.
Not Mercury, the messenger of Jove,
E'er carried to his father such good news
As I have for my mistress.—I'm so laden
With pure delight, I shall deliver nought,
But in a stile magnificent and pompous.
I bring the loves and graces to her ears,
And my glad heart o'erflows its banks with joy.
Dinacium, mend thy pace, and let thy speed
Be worthy of thy message—Now's the time
To acquire praise, honour, immortal glory:
Surpass the virtues of thy ancestors,
Comfort thy longing mistress, who awaits
With eagerness her husband, her Epignomus;
Whom, as she ought, she loves—Haste then, Dinacium,
Fly, if you please, or run—No notice take
Of any—Elbow all—Make good your way,
And, if a lord oppose you, knock him down.

Gel.
And whither runs at such a rate my wanton,
My nice Dinacium, with his rod and hooks
And basket in his hand?

Din.
[apart.]
But after all
My mistress ought indeed to come to me
With cap in hand—or send her messengers
With golden presents, and a chariot ready
To bring me home—for I can't walk afoot.
I'll e'en turn back—'Tis properer for her
To come to me in supplicating mood—
Think you I nothing know, or trifles bring?
Such news important from the port I tell,
A treasure of such joy, my mistress dares not,
Except she knows it, ask it of the gods.
And shall I bear it of my own accord?
I like it not—nor think it is my duty.
It more becomes the dignity, methinks,
Of such a messenger, for her to come
And beg me to impart to her this news.
Great men take state upon them; and 'tis fit.
Yet when I think again, how should she know,
I am so knowing?—I have not the heart
Not to return, to speak, to tell her all,
To snatch her from her griefs, and in beneficence,
Surpass the glories of my ancestors,
And bring unhop'd for comfort to my mistress.
Well! I'll outdo Talthybius himself,
And look on other heralds with contempt.
I shall prepare me for the Olympick games.
But here's no space—A chariot cannot turn.
This is unlucky.—Ha! What's this?—The door,
I see, is shut—I'll up to it, and knock—
[knocks.
Hast to the gate—Open the door this moment—
See, if they stir—I'm shamefully neglected—
How long must I stand knocking?—All asleep!
I'll try then which is strongest, or my feet
And elbows, or the doors—I wish the gate
Had shewn its master a fair pair of heels,
So it were furnish'd for't—I'm tir'd with knocking.
This knock, and this the last—

[knocks again.
Gel.
I'll speak to him.
Good day to you.

Din.
To you the same.

Gel.
What now?
Turn'd fisherman?

Din.
How long is't since you eat?

Gel.
Whence come you? What ha'st there? Why in a hurry?

Din.
What's that to you, friend?—Trouble not yourself!

Gel.
What's in your basket there?

Din.
Snakes; don't you see them?

Gel.
Nay, why so angry?

Din.
If you'd any shame,
You would not question me.

Gel.
Is there no truth
To be got out of thee?—

Din.
Ay, marry! is there.
You'll go to bed to-night without a supper.