Host. Sir, I do teach him somewhat. By degrees,
And with a Funnel, I make shift to fill
The narrow Vessel, he is but yet a Bottle.
Lov. O let him lose no time though. Hos. Sir, he do's not.
Lov. And less his manners. Hos. I provide for those, too.
Come hither Frank, speak to the Gentleman
In Latin: He is melancholy; say,
I long to see him merry, and so would treat him.
Fra. Subtristis visu' es esse aliquantulùm patri,
Qui te lautè excipere, etiam ac tractare gestit. Lov. Pulchrè.
Host. Tell him, I fear it bodes us some ill luck,
His too reservedness. Fra. Veretur pater,
Ne quid nobis mali ominis apportet iste
Nimis præclusus vultus. Lov. Bellè. A fine Child!
You wo' not part with him, mine Host? H. Who told you
I would not? Lov. I but ask you. Hos. And I answer,
To whom? for what? Lov. To me, to be my Page.
Host. I know no mischief yet the Child hath done,
To deserve such a destiny. Lov. Why? Ho. Go down Boy,
And get your Breakfast. Trust me, I had rather
Take a fair Halter, wash my Hands, and hang him
My self, make a clean riddance of him, than — Lo. What?
Host. Than damn him to that desperate course of Life.
Lov. Call you that desperate, which by a Line
Of Institution, from our Ancestors,
Hath been deriv'd down to us, and receiv'd
In a Succession, for the Noblest way
Of breeding up our Youth, in Letters, Arms,
Fair Mein, Discourses, civil Exercise,
And all the Blazon of a Gentleman?
Where can he learn to vault, to ride, to fence,
To move his Body gracefuller? to speak
His Language purer? or to tune his Mind,
Or Manners, more to the harmony of Nature,
Than in these Nurseries of Nobility? —
Host. I that was, when the Nurseries self was Noble,
And only Vertue made it, not the Market,
That Titles were not vented at the Drum,
Or common out-cry; Goodness gave the Greatness,
And Greatness Worship: Every House became
An Academy of Honour, and those Parts —
We see departed, in the Practice, now,
Quite from the Institution. Lov. Why do you say so?
Or think so enviously? do they not still
Learn there the Centaures Skill, the Art of Thrace,
To ride? or Pollux Mystery, to Fence?
The Pyrrhick Gestures, both to Dance and Spring
In Armour, to be active for the Wars?
To study Figures, Numbers, and Proportions,
May yield 'em great in Counsels, and the Arts
Grave Nestor, and the wise Ulysses practis'd?
To make their English sweet upon their Tongue!
As Rev'rend Chaucer says? Host. Sir you mistake,
To play Sir Pandarus my Copy hath it,
And carry Messages to Madam Cresside.
Instead of backing the brave Steed, o' Mornings,
To mount the Chambermaid; and for a leap
O' the vaulting Horse, to ply the vaulting House:
For exercise of Arms, a Bale of Dice,
Or two or three Packs of Cards to shew the Cheat,
And nimbleness of Hand: mistake a Cloak
From my Lords back, and pawn it. Ease his Pockets
Of a superfluous Watch. Or geld a Jewel
Of an odd Stone or so. Twinge three or four Buttons
From off my Ladies Gown. These are the Arts,
Or Seven liberal deadly Sciences
Of Pagery, or rather Paganism,
As the Tides run. To which, if he apply him,
He may, perhaps, take a degree at Tyburn,
A year the earlier: come to read a Lecture
Upon Aquinas at S. Thomas a Waterings,
And so go forth a Laureat in Hemp circle!
Lov. You're tart, mine Host, and talk above your seasoning,
O're what you seem: it should not come, methinks,
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Under your Cap, this Vein of salt and sharpness!
These strikings upon Learning, now and then?
How long have you, (if your dull Guest may ask it,)
Drove this quick Trade, of keeping the Light-heart,
Your Mansion, Palace here, or Hostelry?
Host. Troth, I was born to somewhat, Sir, above it.
Lov. I easily suspect that: Mine Host, your Name.
Hos. They call me Good-stock. Lov. Sir, and you confess it,
Both i' your Language, Treaty, and your Bearing.
Hos. Yet all, Sir, are not Sons o' the white Hen;
Nor can we, as the Songster says, come all
To be wrapt soft and warm in Fortunes Smock:
When she is pleas'd to trick or tromp Mankind,
Some may be Coats, as in the Cards; but, then
Some must be Knaves, some Varlets, Bauds, and Ostlers,
As Aces, Duizes, Cards o'ten, to face it
Out i' the Game, which all the World is. Lov. But,
It being i' your free will (as 'twas) to choose
What Parts you would sustain, methinks, a Man
Of your sagacity, and clear Nostril, should
Have made, another choise, than of a Place
So sordid, as the keeping of an Inn:
Where every jovial Tinker, for his Chink,
May cry, mine Host, to Crambe, give us Drink;
And do not slink, but skink, or else you stink
Rogue, Baud, and Cheater, call you by the Surnames,
And known Synonyma of your Profession.
Hos. But if I be no such; who then's the Rogue,
In understanding, Sir, I mean? who errs?
Who tinkleth then? or Personates Thom Tinker?
Your Weazil here may tell you I talk baudy,
And teach my Boy it; and you may believe him:
But Sir, at your own Peril, if I do not:
And at his too, if he do lye, and affirm it.
No Slander strikes, less hurts, the Innocent.
If I be honest, and that all the Cheat
Be of my self, in keeping this Light Heart,
Where, I imagine all the World's a Play;
The State, and Mens Affairs, all Passages
Of Life, to spring new Scenes; come in, go out,
And shift, and vanish; and if I have got
A Seat, to sit at ease here, i' mine Inn,
To see the Comedy; and laugh, and chuck
At the variety and throng of Humors
And Dispositions, that come justling in,
And out still, as they one drove hence another:
Why, will you envy me my happiness?
Because you are sad and lumpish; carry a Load-stone
I' your Pocket, to hang Knives on; or jet Rings,
T' entice light Straws to leap at 'em; are not taken
With the alacrities of an Host! 'Tis more,
And justlier, Sir, my wonder, why you took
My House up, Fidlers Hall, the Seat of noise,
And mirth, an Inn here, to be drousie in,
And lodge your Lethargy in the Light Heart,
As if some Cloud from Court had been your Harbinger,
Or Cheap-side Debt-Books, or some Mistress charge,
Seeing your Love grow corpulent, gi' it a Dyet,
By absence, some such mouldy Passion!
Lo. 'Tis guess'd unhappily. Fe. Mine Host, yo're call'd.
H. I come, Boys. L. Ferret, have not you been ploughing
With this mad Ox, mine Host? Nor he with you?
Fer. For what Sir? Lov. Why, to find my Riddle out.
Fer. I hope, you do believe, Sir, I can find
Other Discourse to be at, than my Master
With Hosts and Hostlers. Lov. If you can, 'tis well.
Go down, and see, who they are come in, what Guests;
And bring me word.
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