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95

P O E T A S T E R:

O R,

His Arraignment.

A COMICAL SATYR.

First Acted in the Year 1601. By the then CHILDREN of QUEEN
ELIZABETH's CHAPPEL.

With the Allowance of the Master of REVELS.

The Author B. J.
Et mihi de nullo fama rubore placet.  Mart.

TO THE

VERTUOUS and my WORTHY FRIEND,

Mr. Richard Martin.

SIR,

A
Thankful Man owes a Courtesie ever: the unthankful, but when he needs it. To make mine own mark appear, and shew by which of these Seals I am known, I send you this Piece of what may live of mine; for whose Innocence, as for the Authors, you were once a Noble and Timely Undertaker, to the greatest Justice of this Kingdom. Enjoy now the delight of your Goodness; which is to see that prosper, you preserv'd: and Posterity to owe the reading of that, without offence, to your Name, which so much Ignorance, and Malice of the Times, then conspir'd to have supprest.

Your true Lover,           

BEN. JOHNSON.

96

The PERSONS of the PLAY.

AUGUSTUS CÆSAR.

MECOENAS.

MARC. OVID.

COR. GALLUS.

PROPERTIUS.

FUS. ARISTUS.

PUB. OVID.

VIRGIL.

HORACE.

TREBATIUS.

 LUPUS.

TUCCA.

CRISPINUS.

HERMOGENES.

DE. FANNIUS.

ALBIUS..

MINOS.

HISTRIO.

PYRGUS.

LICTORS.

JULIA.

CYTHERIS.

PLAUTIA.

CHLOE.

MAIDS.



The SCENE

R O M E.


The Principal COMœDIANS were,

NAT. FIELD.

SAL. PAVY.

THO. DAY.

 JOH. UNDERWOOD.

WILL. OSTLER.

THO. MARTON.




97
P O E T A S T E R.
After the second sounding.

[Arising in the midst
 of the Stage.
                          Envy.


L

Ight, I salute thee, but with wounded Nerves:
 Wishing thy Golden splendor, pitchy darkness.
 What's here? th' Arraignment? I: This, this is it.
 That our sunk Eyes have wak't for all this while:
Here will be subject for my Snakes, and me.
Cling to my Neck, and Wrists, my loving Worms,
And cast you round in soft and amorous foulds,
Till I do bid, uncurl: Then break your Knots,
Shoot out your selves at length, as your forc't Stings
Would hide themselves within his malic't sides,
To whom I shall apply you. Stay! the shine
Of this Assembly here offends my sight,
I'll darken that first, and Out-face their Grace.
Wonder not, if I stare: these Fifteen Weeks
(So long as since the Plot was but an Embrion)
Have I, with burning Lights mixt vigilant Thoughts,
In expectation of this hated Play;
To which (at last) I am arriv'd as Prologue.
Nor would I, you should look for other Looks,
Gesture, or Complement from me, than what
Th' infected bulk of Envy can afford:
For I am riss here with a covetous hope,
To blast your Pleasures and destroy your Sports,
With Wrestings, Comments, Applications,
Spy-like Suggestions, privy Whisperings,
And thousand such promootingpromoting sleights as these.
Mark, how I will begin: The Scene is, ha!
Rome? Rome? and Rome? Crack Eye-strings, and your Balls
Drop into Earth; let me be ever blind.
I am prevented; all my hopes are crost,
Check't, and abated; fie, a freezing sweat
Flows forth at all my Pores, my Entrails burn:
What should I do? Rome? Rome? O my vext Soul,
How might I force this to the present state?
Are there no Players here? no Poet-apes,
That come with Basilisks Eyes, whose forked Tongues
Are steept in venom, as their Hearts in Gall?
Either of these would help me; they could wrest,
Pervert, and poyson all they hear, or see,
With senseless Glosses, and Allusions.
Now if you be good Devils, fly me not.
You know what dear and ample Faculties
I have endow'd you with: I'll lend you more.
Here, take my Snakes among you, come, and eat,
And while the squeez'd juice flows in your black Jaws,
Help me to dam the Author. Spit it forth
Upon his Lines, and shew your rusty Teeth
At every Word, or Accent: or else choose
Out of my longest Vipers, to stick down
In your deep Throats; and let the Heads come forth
At your ranck Mouths; that he may see you arm'd
With triple Malice, to hiss, sting, and tear
His work and him; to forge, and then declaim,
Traduce, corrupt, apply, enforce, suggest:
O, these are gifts wherein your Souls are blest.
What? do you hide your selves? will none appear?
None answer? what, doth this calm Troop affright you?
Nay, then I do despair? down, sink again.

[column break]

This travail is all lost with my dead hopes.
If in such Bosoms Spight have left to dwell,
Envy is not on Eorth,Earth nor scarse in Hell.

The third Sounding.

P R O L O G U E.

S
Tay Monster, ere thou sink, thus on thy Head
 Set we our bolder Foot; with which we tread
Thy Malice into Earth: So spight should dye,
Despis'd and scorn'd by noble Industry.
If any muse why I salute the Stage,
An armed Prologue; know, 'tis a dangerous Age:
Wherein, who writes, had need present his Scenes
Forty-fold proof against the conjuring means
Of base Detractors, and illiterate Apes,
That fill up Rooms in fair and formal shapes.
'Gainst these, have we put on this forc't defence:
Whereof the Allegory and hid sense
Is, that a well erected Confidence
Can fright their Pride, and laugh their Folly hence.
Here now, put case our Author should, once more,
Swear that his Play were good; he doth implore,
You would not argue him of Arrogance:
How e're that common Spawn of Ignorance,
Our fry of Writers may beslime his Fame,
And give his Action that adulterate Name.
Such full-blown vanity he more doth loath,
Than base dejection: There's a mean 'twixt both.
Which with a constant firmness he pursues,
As one that knows the strength of his own Muse.
And this he hopes all free Souls will allow;
Others, that take it with a rugged brow,
Their Moods he rather pitties than envies:
His Mind it is above their Iujuries.Injuries

Act I.    Scene I.

Ovid, Luscus.

T

Hen, when this Body falls in Funeral Fire,
   My name shall live, and my best part aspire.
   It shall go so.
   Lusc. Young Master, Master Ovid, do you hear? Gods
a me! away with your Songs, and Sonnets; and on with
your Gown and Cap, quickly: here, here, your Father
will be a Man of this room presently. Come, nay, nay,
nay, nay, be brief. These Verses too, a poyson on 'em,
I cannot abide 'em, they make me ready to cast by the
Banks of Helicon. Nay look, what a rascally untoward
thing this Poetry is; I could tear 'em now.
   Ovid. Give me, how neer's my Father?
   Lusc. Heart a Man: get a Law-book in your hand, I
will not answer you else. Why so: now there's some
formality in you. By Jove, and three or four of the
Gods more, I am right of mine old Masters humour
for that; this villanous Poetry will undo you, by the
welkin.
   Ovid. What, hast thou Buskins on, Luscus, that thou
swear'st so tragically and high?

O                               Lusc.                   


98 Poetaster.                 

   Lusc. No, but I have Boots on, Sir, and so has your Fa-
ther too by this time: for he call'd for 'em e're I came
from the Lodging.
   Ovid. Why? was he no readier?
   Lusc. O no; and there was the mad skeldring Cap-
tain, with the Velvet Arms, ready to lay hold on him as
he comes down: he that presses every Man he meets,
with an Oath, to lend him Money, and cries, (Thou
must do't, old Boy, as thou art a Man, a Man of
Worship.)
   Ovid. Who? Pantilius Tucca?
   Lusc. I, he; and I met little Master Lupus, the Tri-
bune, going thither too.
   Ovid. Nay, an' he be under their Arrest, I may (with
safety enough) read over my Elegy before he come.
   Lusc. Gods a me! What'll you do? why, young Ma-
ster, you are not Castalian Mad, Lunatick, Frantick,
Desperate? ha?
   Ovid. What ailest thou, Luscus?
   Lusc. God be with you, Sir, I'll leave you to your Poe-
tical Fancies, and Furies. I'll not be guilty, I.
   Ovid. Be not, good ignorance: I'm glad th'art gone:
For thus alone, our Ear shall better judge
The hasty Errours of our Moning Muse.

Ovid. Lib. 1. Amo. Ele. 15.

E
Nvy, why twit'st thou me, my time's spent ill?
  And call'st my Verse, fruits of an idle quill?
Or that (unlike the Line from whence I sprung)
Wars dusty Honours I pursue not young?
Or that I study not the tedious Laws;
And prostitute my voyce in every Cause?
Thy scope is mortal; mine, eternal fame:
Which through the World shall ever chaunt my Name.
Homer will live, whil'st Tenedos stands, and Ide,
Or, to the Sea, fleet Simois doth slide:
And so shall Hesiod too, while Vines do bear,
Or croocked Sickles crop the ripened Ear.
Callimachus, though in invention low,
Shall still be sung, since he in art doth flow.
No loss shall come to Sophocles proud vein;
With Sun and Moon Aratus shall remain.
Whil'st Slaves be false, Fathers hard, and Bawds be whorish,
Whil'st Harlots flatter, shall Menander flourish.
Ennius, though rude, and Accius high-rear'd strain,
A fresh applause in every Age shall gain.
Of Varro's name, what Ear shall not be told?
Of Jason's Argo and the Fleece of Gold?
Then shall Lucretius lofty numbers dye,
When Earth and Seas in Fire and Flames shall fry.
Tytirus, Tillage, Ænee shollshall be read,
Whilst Rome of all the Conquer'd World is Head.
Till Cupid's Fires be out, and his Bow broken,
Thy Verses (neat Tibullus) shall be spoken.
Our Gallus shall be known from East to West:
So shall Lycoris, whom he now loves best.
The suffering Plough-share or the Flint may wear:
But Heavenly Poesie no death can fear.
Kings shall give place to it, and kingly shows,
The Banks o're which Gold-bearing Tagus flows.
Kneell Hinds to trash: me let bright Phœbus swell
With Cups full flowing from the Muses Well.
Frost-fearing Myrtle shall impale my Head,
And of sad Lovers I'll be often read.
"Envy, the Living, not the Dead, doth bite:
"For after death all Men receive their right.
Then, when this Body falls in Funeral Fire,
My Name shall live, and my best part aspire.

[column break]

Act I.    Scene II.

Ovid Senior, Ovid Junior, Luscus, Tucca, Lupus,
   Pyrgus.

Y
Our Name shall live indeed, Sir; you say true:
 but how infamously, how scorn'd and contemn'd
in the Eyes and Ears of the best and gravest Romans,
that you think not on: you never so much as dream of
that. Are these the Fruits of all my travel and expences?
is this the Scope and Aim of thy Studies? are these the
hopeful Courses, wherewith I have so long flattered my
expectation from thee? Verses? Poetry? Ovid, whom I
thought to see the Pleader, become Ovid the Play-
maker?
   Ovid. ju. No, Sir.
   Ovid. se. Yes, Sir. I hear of a Tragedy of yours com-
ing forth for the common Players there, call'd Medea.
By my Houshold-gods, if I come to the Acting of it,
I'll add one Tragick Part more than is yet expected, to
it; believe me when I promise it. What? shall I have
my Son a Stager now? an Enghle for Players? a Gull?
a Rook? a Shot-clog? to make Suppers, and be laught
at? Publius, I will set thee on the Funeral Pile first.
   Ovid. ju. Sir, I beseech you to have patience.
   Lusc. Nay, this 'tis to have your Ears dam'd up to
good Counsel. I did augure all this to him before-hand,
without poring into an Oxes Panch for the matter, and
yet he would not be scrupulous.
   Tuc. How now, Goodman Slave? what rowly powly?
all Rivals, Rascal? Why my Master of worship, dost
hear? Are these thy best Projects? is this thy Designs
and thy Discipline, to suffer Knaves to be competitors
with Commanders and Gentlemen? are we Parallels,
Rascal? are we Parallels?
   Ovid. se. Sirrah, go get my Horses ready. You'll still
be prating.
   Tuc. Do, you perpetual Stinkard, do, go; talk to
Tapsters and Ostlers, you Slave, they are i' your Ele-
ment, go; here be the Emperors Captains, you Ragga-
muffin Rascal, and not your Cam'rades.
   Lup. Indeed, Marcus Ovid, these Players are an idle
Generation, and do much harm in a State, corrupt
young Gentry very much, I know it: I have not been
a Tribune thus long and observ'd nothing: Besides, they
will rob us, us, that are Magistrates, of our respect,
bring us upon their Stages, and make us ridiculous to
the Plebeians; they will play you, or me, the wisest Men
they can come by still; only to bring us in contempt
with the vulgar, and make us cheap.
   Tuc. Th'art in the right, my venerable Cropshin,
they will indeed: the Tongue of the Oracle never
twang'd truer. Your Courtier cannot kiss his Mistresses
Slippers in quiet for 'em: nor your white innocent Gal-
lant pawn his Revelling Sute to make his Punk a Sup-
per. An honest decayed Commander cannot Skelder,
Cheat, nor be seen in a Bawdy-house, but he shall be
strait in one of their Worm-wood Comedies. They are
grown licentious, the Rogues; Libertines, flat Liber-
tines. They forget they are i' the Statute, the Rascals,
they are blazon'd there, there they are trickt, they and
their Pedigrees; they need no other Heralds, I wiss.
   Ovid. se. Methinks, if nothing else, yet this alone,
the very reading of the Publick Edicts, should fright thee
from Commerce with them, and give thee distaste e-
nough of their Actions. But this betrays what a Student
you are: this argues your Proficiency in the Law.
   Ovid. ju. They wrong me, Sir, and do abuse you
      more,
That blow your Ears with these untrue Reports.
I am not known unto the open Stage,
Nor do I Traffick in their Theaters.
Indeed, I do acknowledg, at request
Of


            Poetaster. 99

Of some meer Friends, and honourable Romans,
I have begun a Poem of that nature.
   Ovid. se. You have, Sir, a Poem? and where is't?
that's the Law you study.
   Ovid. ju. Cornelius Gallus borrowed it to read.
   Ovid. se. Cornelius Gallus? There's another Gallant,
too, hath drunk of the same Poyson: and Tibullus, and
Propertius. But these are Gentlemen of Means and Re-
veneues now. Thou art a younger Brother, and hast
nothing but thy bare exhibition: which I protest shall
be bare indeed, if thou forsake not these unprofitable
By-courses, and that timely too. Name me a profest
Poet, that his Poetry did ever afford him so much as a
Competency. I, your God of Poets there (whom all
of you admire and reverence so much) Homer, he whose
Worm-eaten Statue must not be spew'd against, but with
hallowed Lips, and groveling Adoration, what was he?
what was he?
   Tucc. Marry, I'll tell thee, old Swaggerer; He was a
poor, blind, riming Rascal, that liv'd obscurely up and
down in Booths, and Tap-houses, and scarce ever made
a good Meal in his sleep, the Whorson hungry beg-
ger.
   Ovid. se. He says well: Nay, I know this nettles you
now, but answer me; Is't not true? you'll tell me his
name shall live; and that (now being dead) his works
have eternis'd him, and made him Divine. But could
this Divinity feed him, while he liv'd? could his name
feast him?
   Tucc. Or purchase him a Senators Revenue? could it?
   Ovid. se. I, or give him Place in the Common-
wealth? Worship, or Attendants? make him be carried
in his Litter?
   Tucc. Thou speakest Sentences, old Bias.
   Lup. All this the Law will do, young Sir, if you'll
follow it.
   Ovid. se. If he be mine, he shall follow and observe,
what I will apt him to, or, I profess here openly, and
utterly to disclaim him.
   Ovid. ju. Sir, let me crave you will forgo these
Moods;
I will be any thing, or study any thing:
I'll prove the unfashion'd Body of the Law
Pure elegance, and make her rugged'st strains
Run smoothly, as Propertius Elegies.
   Ovid. se. Propertius Elegies? good!
   Lup. Nay, you take him too quickly, Marcus.
   Ovid. se. Why, he cannot speak, he cannot think out
of Poetry, he is bewicht with it.
   Lup. Come, do not mis-prize him.
   Ovid. se. Mis-prize? I, marry, I would have him use
some such words now: They have some touch, some taste
of the Law. He should make himself a stile out of these,
and let his Propertius Elegies go by.
   Lup. Indeed, young Publius, he that will now hit the
Mark, must shoot through the Law; we have no other
Planet Reigns, and in that Sphear, you may sit and sing
with Angels. Why, the Law makes a Man happy,
without respecting any other Merit: a simple Schollar, or
none at all, may be a Lawyer.
   Tuc. He tells thee true, my noble Neophyte; my little
Grammaticaster, he do's: It shall never put thee to thy
Mathematicks, Metaphysicks, Philosophy, and I know not
what suppos'd sufficiencies; if thou canst but have the
patience to plod enough, talk, and make a noise enough,
be impudent enough, and 'tis enough.
   Lup. Three Books will furnish you.
   Tuc. And the less Art, the better: Besides, when it
shall be in the power of thy Chevril Conscience, to do
right, or wrong, at thy pleasure, my pretty Alcibiades.
   Lup. I, and to have better Men than himself, by ma-
ny thousand degrees, to observe him, and stand bare.
   Tuc. True, and he to carry himself proud, and stately,
and have the Law on his side for't, old Boy.

[column break]

   Ovid. se. Well, the day grows old, Gentlemen, and
I must leave you. Publius, if thou wilt hold my fa-
vour, abandon these idle fruitless Studies that so bewitch
thee. Send Janus home his Back-face again, and look
only forward to the Law: Intend that. I will allow
thee what shall sute thee in the Rank of Gentlemen,
and maintain thy Society with the best: and under these
Conditions, I leave thee. My blessings light upon thee,
if thou respect them: if not, mine Eyes may drop for
thee, but thine own Heart will ake for it self; and so
farewel. What, are my Horses come?
   Lus. Yes, Sir, they are at the Gate without.
   Ovid. se. That's well. Asinius Lupus, a word. Cap-
tain, I shall take my leave of you?
   Tuc. No, my little old Boy, dispatch with Cothurnus
there: I'll attend thee, I ——
   Lus. To borrow some ten Drachmes, I know his Project.
   Ovid. se. Sir, you shall make me beholding to you.
Now Captain Tucca, what say you?
   Tuc. Why, what should I say? or what can I say, my
flower o' the Order? Should I say, thou art Rich? or
that thou art Honourable? or Wise? or Valiant? or
Learned? or Liberal? Why, thou art all these, and thou
knowest it (my noble Lucullus) thou knowest it: come,
be not ashamed of thy Vertues, old Stump. Honours a
good brooch to wear in a Mans Hat, at all times. Thou
art the Man of Wars Mecœnas, old Boy. Why shouldst
not thou be grac't then by them, as well as he is by his
Poets? How now, my Carrier, what News.
   Lus. The Boy has staied within for his Cue, this half hour.
   Tuc. Come, do not whisper to me, but speak it out:
what? it is no Treason against the State, I hope, is't?
   Lus. Yes, against the State of my Masters Purse.
   Pyr. Sir, Agrippa desires you to forbear him till the
next Week: his Moils are not yet come up.
   Tuc. His Moils, now the Bots, the Spavin, and the
Glanders, and some dozen Diseases more, light on him
and his Moils. What ha' they the yellows, his Moils,
that they come no faster? or are they foundred? ha?
his Moils ha' the Staggers belike: ha' they?
   Pyr. O no, Sir: then your Tongue might be suspected
for one of his Moils.
   Tuc. He owes me almost a Talent, and he thinks to
bear it away with his Moils, does he? Sirrah, you, Nut-
cracker, go your ways to him again, and tell him I must
ha' Money, I: I cannot eat Stones and Turfs, say.
What, will he clem me and my Followers? Ask him
an' he will clem me; do, go. He would have me fry
my Jerkin, would he? Away, Setter, away. Yet, stay
my little Tumbler; this old Boy shall supply now. I
will not trouble him, I cannot be importunate, I: I can-
not be impudent.
   Pyr. Alas, Sir, no; you are the most maidenly blush-
ing Creature upon the Earth.
   Tuc. Dost thou hear, my little six and fifty, or there-
abouts? Thou art not to learn the Humours and Tricks
of that old bald Cheater Time: thou hast not this Chain
for nothing. Men of worth have their Chymera's, as
well as other Creatures: and they do see Monsters,
sometimes: they do, they do, brave Boy.
   Pyr. Better cheap than he shall see you, I warrant
him.
   Tuc. Thou must let me have six, six Drachmes, I mean,
old Boy; thou shalt do it: I tell thee, old Boy, thou
shalt, and in private too, dost thou see? Go, walk off:
there, there. Six is the Sum. Thy Son's a Gallant Spark,
and must not be put out of a sudden: come hither, Cal-
limachus, thy Father tells me thou art too Poetical, Boy;
thou must not be so, thou must leave them, young Novice,
thou must; they are a sort of poor starv'd Rascals; that
are ever wrapt up in foul Linnen; and can boast of no-
thing but a lean Visage, peering out of a Seam-rent Sute;
the very Emblems of Beggery. No, dost hear? turn Lawyer,
Thou shalt be my Solicitor. 'Tis right, old Boy, ist?
O 2                                       Ovid.


100 Poetaster.                     

   Ovid. se. You were best tell it, Captain.
   Tuc. No: fare thou well mine honest Horse-man, and
thou old Bever. Pray thee Roman, when thou comest
to Town, see me at my Lodging, visit me sometimes:
thou shalt be welcom, old Boy. Do not balk me, good
Swaggerer. Jove keep thy Chain from pawning, go
thy ways, if thou lack Money, I'll lend thee some: I'll
leave thee to thy Horse now. Adieu.
   Ovid. se. Farewel, good Captain.
   Tuc. Boy, you can have but half a share now, Boy.
   Ovid. se. 'Tis a strange boldness that accompanies this
Fellow: Come.
   Ovid. ju. I'll give attendance on you to your Horse,
Sir, please you ——
   Ovid se. No: keep your Chamber, and fall to your
Studies; do so: the Gods of Rome bless thee.
   Ovid. ju. And give me stomak to digest this Law.
That should have followed sure, had I been he.
O sacred Poesie, thou Spirit of Roman Arts,
The Soul of Science, and the Queen of Souls;
What prophane Violence, almost Sacrilege,
Hath here been offered thy Divinities!
That thine own guiltless Poverty should arm
Prodigious Ignorance to wound thee thus!
For thence is all their force of Argument
Drawn forth against thee; or from the abuse
Of thy great powers in adult'rate Brains:
When, would Men learn but to distinguish Spirits,
And set true difference 'twixt those jaded Wits
That run a broken pace for common hire,
And the high Raptures of a happy Muse,
Borne on the Wings of her immortal thought,
That kicks at Earth with a disdainful Heel,
And beats at Heaven Gates with her bright Hoofs;
They would not then with such distorted Faces,
And desp'rate Censures, stab at Poesie.
They would admire bright Knowledg and their Minds
Should ne're descend on so unworthy Objects
As Gold, or Titles: they would dread far more,
To be thought ignorant, than be known poor.
'The time was once, when Wit drown'd Wealth: but now,
'Your only Barbarism is t' have Wit, and want.
'No matter now in Vertue who excels,
'He that hath Coin, hath all perfection else.

Act I.    Scene III.

Tibullus, Ovid.

O
Vid?   Ovid. Who's there? GomeCome in.   Tib. Good
 morrow, Lawyer.
   Ovid. Good morrow (dear Tibullus) welcom: sit down.
   Tib. Not I. What, so hard at it? Let's see, what's here?
Nay, I will see it —   Ovid. Prithee away —
   Tib. If thrice in Field, a man vanquish his Foe,
          'Tis after in his choice to serve, or no.
How now Ovid! Law Cases in Verse?
   Ovid. In troth, I know not: they run from my Pen
Unwittingly, if they be Verse. What's the news abroad?
   Tib. Off with this Gown, I come to have thee walk.
   Ovid. No, good Tibullus, I'm not now in Case,
Pray' let me alone.   Tib. How? not in case!
'Slight thou'rt in too much case, by all this Law.
   Ovid. Troth, if I live, I will new dress the Law,
In sprightly Poesies habillaments.
   Tib. The Hell thou wilt. What, turn Law into Verse?
Thy Father has school'd thee, I see. Here, read that same.
There's subject for you: and if I mistake not,
A Supersedeas to your melancholy.
   Ovid. How! subscrib'd Julia! O, my Life, my Heaven!
   Tib. Is the Mood chang'd?
   Ovid. Musick of Wit! Note for th' harmonious
Sphears!
Celestial Accents, how you ravish me!

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   Tibu. What is it, Ovid?
   Ovid. That I must meet my Julia, the Princess Julia.
   Tibu. Where?
   Ovid. Why, at —— Heart, I have forgot: my Pas-
sion so transports me.
   Tibu. I'll save your pains: it is at Albius House,
The Jewellers, where the fair Lycoris lyes.
   Ovid. Who? Cytheris, Cornelius Gallus Love?
   Tibu. I, he'll be there too, and my Plautia.
   Ovid. And why not your Delia?
   Tibu. Yes, and your Corinna.
   Ovid. True, but my sweet Tibullus, keep that secret:
I would not, for all Rome, it should be thought,
I vail bright Julia underneath that name:
Julia the Gem and Jewel of my Soul,
That takes her Honours from the golden Sky,
As Beauty doth all lustre from her Eye.
The Air respires the pure Elyzian Sweets
In which she breaths, and from Looks descend
The Glories of the Summer. Heaven she is,
Prais'd in her self above all praise: and he
Which hears her speak, would swear the tuneful Orbes
Turn'd in his Zenith only.   Tibu. Publius, thou'lt lose
      thy self.
   Ovid. O, in no Labyrinth can I safelier err,
Than when I lose my self in praising her.
Hence Law, and welcom Muses; though not rich,
Yet are you pleasing: let's be reconcil'd,
And now made one. Henceforth, I promise faith,
And all my serious hours to spend with you:
With you, whose Musick striketh on my Heart,
And with bewitching tones steals forth my Spirit,
In Julia's name; fair Julia: Julia's Love
Shall be a Law, and that sweet Law I'll study,
The Law, and art of sacred Julia's Love:
All other Objects will but Abjects prove.
   Tibu. Come, we shall have thee as passionate as Pro-
pertius, anon.
   Ovid. O, how does my Sextus?
   Tibu. Faith, full of sorrow for his Cynthia's death.
   Ovid. What, still?
   Tibu. Still, and still more, his Griefs do grow upon him,
As do his hours. Never did I know
An understanding Spirit so take to heart
The common work of Fate.   Ovid. O my Tibullus,
Let us not blame him: for, against such chances,
The heartiest strife of Vertue is not proof.
We may read Constancy and Fortitude
To other Souls: but had our selves been struck
With the like Planet, had our Loves (like his)
Been ravisht from us by injurious Death,
And in the height, and heat of our best days,
It would have crackt our Sinnews, shrunk our Veins,
And made our very Heart-strings jar, like his.
Come, let's go take him forth, and prove, if mirth
Or Company will but abate his Passion.
   Tib. Content, and I implore the Gods it may.


Act II.    Scene I.

Albius, Crispinus, Chloe, Maids, Cytheris.

M
Aster Crispinus, you are welcom: Pray' use a
 Stool, Sir. Your Cousin Cytheris will come down
presently. We are so busie for the receiving of these
Courtiers here, that I can scarce be a Minute with my
self, for thinking of them: Pray you sit, Sir: Pray you
sit, Sir.
   Cris. I am very well, Sir. Ne're trust me, but you
are most delicately seated here, full of sweet delight and
blandishment! an excellent Air, an excellent Air!

Albi.


             Poetaster. 101

   Albi. I, Sir, 'tis a pretty air. These Courtiers run in
my mind still; I must look out: for Jupiters sake, sit,
Sir. Or please you walk into the Garden? There's a
Garden on the back-side.
   Cris. I am most strenuously well, I thank you, Sir.
   Albi. Much good do you, Sir.
   Chlo. Come, bring those Perfumes forward a little,
and strew some Roses and Violets here; Fie, here be
Rooms favour the most pitifully rank that ever I felt: I
cry the Gods Mercy, my Husband's in the wind of us.
   Albi. Why this is good, excellent, excellent: well said,
my sweet Chloe: Trim up your House most obsequi-
ously.
   Chlo. For Vulcan's sake, breath somewhere else: in
troth you overcome our Perfumes exceedingly, you are
too predominant.
   Albi. Hear but my opinion, sweet Wife.
   Chlo. A Pin for your opinion. In sincerity, if you be
thus fulsome to me in every thing, I'll be divorced;
Gods my Body? you know what you were before I
married you; I was a Gentlewoman born, I; I lost all
my Friends to be a Citizens Wife, because I heard in-
deed, they kept their Wives as fine as Ladies; and that
we might rule our Husbands like Ladies, and do what
we listed; do you think I would have married you
else?
   Albi. I acknowledge, sweet Wife, she speaks the best
of any Woman in Italy, and moves as mightily: which
makes me, I had rather she should make Bumps on my
Head, as big as my two Fingers, than I would offend
her. But sweet Wife ——
   Chlo. Yet again? Is't not grace enough for you, that
I call you Husband, and you call me Wife: but you
must still be poking me, against my will, to things?
   Albi. But you know, Wife, here are the greatest La-
dies, and Gallantest Gentlemen of Rome, to be enter-
tain'd in our House now: and I would fain advise thee,
to entertain them in the best sort, i' faith, Wife.
   Chlo. In sincerity, did you ever hear a man talk so
idly? You would seem to be Master? you would have
your Spoke in my Cart? you would advise me to en-
tertain Ladies and Gentlemen? because you can mar-
shal your Pack-needles, Horse-combs, Hobby-Horses, and
Wall-candle-sticks in your Ware-house better than I,
therefore you can tell how to entertain Ladies and Gen-
tlefolks better than I?
   Albi. O my sweet Wife, upbraid me not with that:
"Gain favours sweetly from any thing; he that re-
spects to get, must relish all Commodities alike; and
admit no difference betwixt Ode and Frankincense; or
the most precious Balsamum and a Tar-barrel.
   Chlo. Marry fough: You sell Snuffers too, if you be
remembred, but I pray you let me buy them out of your
hand; for I tell you true, I take it highly in Snuff, to
learn how to entertain Gentlefolks of you, at these
years i'faith. Alas man, there was not a Gentleman
came to youyour house i' your t'other Wives time, I hope?
nor a Lady? nor Musick? nor Masks? Nor you, nor
your House were so much as spoken of, before I dis-
bast my self, from my Hood and my Farthingal, to these
Bum-rowls and your Whale-bone-Bodies.
   Albi. Look here, my sweet Wife; I am mum, my
dear Mummia, my Balsamum, my sperma cete, and my
very City of —— she has the most best, true, feminine
wit in Rome!
   Chris. I have heard so, Sir; and do most vehemently
desire to participate the knowledge of her fair Features.
   Albi. Ah, peace; you shall hear more anon: be not
seen yet, I pray you; not yet: observe.
   Chlo. Give Husbands the Head a little more, and they'll
be nothing but Head shortly; what's he there?
   Maid 1. I know not, forsooth.
   Maid 2. Who would you speak with, Sir?
   Cris. I would speak with my Cousin Cytheris.

[column break]

   Maid 2. He is one, forsooth, would speak with his
Cousin Cytheris.
   Chlo. Is she your Cousin, Sir?
   Chris.Cris. Yes in truth, forsooth, for fault of a better.
   Chlo. She is a Gentlewomau?Gentlewoman
   Cris. Or else she should not be my Cousin, I assure
you.
   Chlo. Are you a Gentleman born?
   Cris. That I am, Lady; you shall see mine Arms, if't
please you.
   Chlo. No, your Legs do sufficiently shew you are a
GetlemanGentleman born Sir: for a Man born upon little Legs, is
always a Gentleman born.
   Cris. Yet, I pray you, vouchsafe the sight of my
Arms, Mistress; for I bear them about me, to have 'em
seen: my name is Crispinus, or Cri-spinas indeed; which        
is well exprest in my Arms, (a Face crying in Chief; and
beneath it a bloody Toe, between three Thorns Pun-
gent.)
   Chlo. Then you are welcome, Sir, now you are a
Gentleman born, I can find it my Heart to welcom you:
for I am Gentlewoman born too, and will bear my Head
high enough, though 'twere my fortune to marry a
Trades-man.
   Cris. No doubt of that, sweet Feature, your Carriage
shews it in any Mans Eye, that is carried upon you with
Judgment.
[He is still going in and out.
   Alb. Dear Wife, be not angry.
   Chlo. God's my Passion!
   Alb. Hear me but one thing; let not your Maids set
Cushions in the Parlor Windows; nor in the Dining-
chamber Windows; nor upon Stools, in either of them,
in any case; for 'tis Tavern-like; but lay them one up-
on another, in some out-room or corner of the Dining-
chamber.
   Chlo. Go, go, meddle with your Bed-chamber only;
or rather with your Bed in your Chamber only; or ra-
ther with your Wife in your Bed only; or on my faith
I'll not be pleas'd with you only.
   Alb. Look here, my dear Wife, entertain that Gentle-
man kindly, I pry'thee —— mum.
   Chlo. Go, I need your instructions indeed; anger me
no more, I advise you. Citi-sin, quoth'a! she's a wise
Gentlewoman y'faith, will marry her self to the sin of
the City.
   Alb. But this time, and no more (by Heaven) Wife:
hang no Pictures in the Hall, nor in the Dining-cham-
ber, in any case, but in the Gallery only, for 'tis not
courtly else, o' my word, Wife.
   Chlo. 'Sprecious, never have done!
   Alb. Wife. ——
   Chlo. Do I not bear a reasonable corrigible hand over
him, Crispinus?
   Cris. By this Hand, Lady, you hold a most sweet hand
over him.
   Alb. And then for the great gilt Andirons ——
   Chlo. Again! would the Andirons were in your great
Guts for me.
   Alb. I do vanish Wife.
   Chlo. How shall I do, Master Crispinus? here will
be all the bravest Ladies in Court presently to see
your Cousin Cytheris: O the Gods! how might I be-
have my self now, as to entertain them most
Courtly?
   Cris. Marry, Lady, if you will entertain them most
Courtly, you must do thus: as soon as ever your Maid
or your Man brings you word they are come; you must
say (A Pox on 'em, what do they here?) And yet when
they come, speak them as fair, and give them the
kindest Welcome in words, that can be.
   Chlo. Is that the fashion of Courtiers, Crispinus?
   Cris. I assure you, it is, Lady, I have observ'd it.
   Chlo. For your Pox, Sir, it is easily hit on; but 'tis
not so easie to speak fair after methinks.
Alb. O


102 Poetaster.                     

   Alb. O Wife, the Coaches are come, on my word, a
number of Coaches and Courtiers.
   Chlo. A Pox on them, what do they here?
   Alb. How now Wife! would'st thou not have 'em
come?
   Chlo. Come? come, you are a Fool, you: He knows
not the trick on't. Call Cytheris, I pray you: and good
Master Crispinus, you can observe, you say; let me
entreat you for all the Ladies Behaviours, Jewels, Jests,
and Attires, that you marking as well as I, we may put
both our marks together, when they are gone, and con-
fer of them.
   Chris.Cris. I warrant you, sweet Lady; let me alone to
observe, till I turn my self to nothing but observation.
Good morrow Cousin Cytheris.
   Cyth. Welcome kind Cousin. What? are they come?
   Alb. I your Friend Cornelius Gallus, Ovid, Tibullus,
Propertius, with Julia the Emperors Daughter, and the
Lady Plautia, are lighted at the Door; and with them
Hermogenes Tigellius, the cxcellentexcellent Musician.
   Cyth. Come, let us go meet them, Chloe.
   Chloe. Observe, Chrispinus.Crispinus
   Cris. At a Hairs breadth, Lady, I warrant you.

Act II.    Scene II.

Gallus, Ovid, Tibullus, Propertius, Hermogenes, Julia, Plau-
   tia, Cytheris, Chloe, Albius, Crispinus.

H
Ealth to the lovely Chloe: you must pardon me,
 Mistress, that I prefer this fair Gentlewoman.
   Cyth. I pardon, and praise you for it, Sir; and I be-
seech your Excellence, receive her Beauties into your
knowledge and favour.
   Jul. Cytheris, she hath favour, and behaviour, that
commands as much of me: and sweet Chloe, know I
do exceedingly love you, and that I will approve in a-
ny Grace my Father the Emperor may shew you. Is
this your Husband?
   Alb. For fault of a better, if it please your Highness.
   Chlo. Gods my life! how he shames me!
   Cyth. Not a whit, Chloe, they all think you politick,
and witty; wise Women chuse not Husbands for the
Eye, Merit, or Birth, but Wealth and Sovereignty.
   Ovid. Sir, we all come to gratulate, for the good re-
port of you.
   Tib. And would be glad to deserve your Love, Sir.
   Alb. My Wife will answer you all, Gentlemen; I'll
come to you again presently.
   Plau. You have chosen you a most fair Companion
here, Cytheris, and a very fair House.
   Cyth. To both which, you and all my Friends are ve-
ry welcome, Plautia.
   Chlo. With all my heart, I assure your Ladiship.
   Plau. Thanks, sweet Mistress Chloe.
   Jul. You must needs come to Court, Lady, i'faith,
and there be sure your welcome shall be as great to us.
   Ovid. She will deserve it, Madam. I see, even in
her Looks, Gentry, and general Worthiness.
   Tib. I have not seen a more certain Character of an
excellent disposition.
   Alb. Wife.
   Chlo. O, they do so commend me here, the Courti-
ers! what's the matter now?
   Alb. For the Banquet sweet Wife.
   Chlo. Yes; and I must needs come to Court, and be
welcome, the Princess says.
   Gal. Ovid, and Tibullus, you may be bold to welcome
your Mistresses here.
   Ovid. We find it so, Sir.
   Tib. And thank Cornelius Gallus.
   Ovid. Nay, my sweet Sextus, in faith thou art not
sociable.

[column break]

   Prop. In faith, I am not, Publius; nor I cannot.
Sick minds, are like sick men that burn with Feavers,
Who when they drink, please but a present taste,
And after bear a more impatient fit.
Pray let me leave you; I offend you all,
And my self most.   Gal. Stay, sweet Propertius.
   Tib. You yield too much unto your griefs, and fate,
Which never hurts, but when we say it hurts us.
   Prop. O peace Tibullus; your Philosophy
Lends you too rough a hand to search my Wounds.
Speak they of griefs, that know to sigh and grieve?
The free and unconstrained spirit feels
No weight of my Oppression.   Ovid. Worthy Roman!
Methinks I taste his Misery, and could
Sit down, and chide at his malignant Stars.
   Jul. Methinks I love him, that he loves so truly.
   Cyth. This is the perfect'st love, lives after death.
   Gal. Such is the constant ground of vertue still.
   Plau. It puts on an inseperable Face.
   Chlo. have you mark't every thing, Crispinus?
   Cris. Every thing, I warrant you.
   Chlo. What Gentlemen are these? do you know them?
   Cris. I, they are Poets, Lady.
   Chlo. Poets? they did not talk of me since I went, did
they?
   Cris. O yes, and extoll'd your Perfections to the
Heavens.
   Chlo. Now in sincerity, they be the finest kind of men
that ever I knew: Poets? Could not one get the Empe-
ror to make my Husband a Poet, think you?
   Cris. No, Lady, 'tis Love, and Beauty make Poets:
and since you like Poets so well, your Love and Beau-
ties shall make me a Poet.
   Chlo. What, shall they? and such a one as these?
   Cris. I, and a better than these: I would be sorry else?
   Chlo. And shall your Looks change? and your Hair
change? and all like these?
   Chris.Cris. Why, a Man may be a Poet, and yet not change
his Hair, Lady.
   Chlo. Well, we shall see your cunning: yet if you can
change your Hair, I pray do.
   Alb. Ladies, and Lordings, there's a slight Banquet
stays within for you, please you draw near, and accost it.
   Jul. We thank you, good Albius: but when shall we
see those excellent Jewels you are commended to have?
   Alb. At your Ladiships Service. I got that Speech by
seeing a Play last day, and it did me some Grace now:
I see, 'tis good to collect sometimes; I'll frequent these
Plays more than I have done, now I come to be familiar
with Courtiers.
   Gal. Why, how now, Hermogenes? what ailest thou
trow?
   Her. A little Melancholy, let me alone, pr'y thee.
   Gal. Melancholy! how so?
   Her. With riding: a Plague on all Coaches for me.
   Chlo. Is that hard-favour'd Gentleman a Poet too;
Cytheris?
   Cyth. No, this is Hermogenes, as humorous as a Poet
though: he is a Musician.
   Chlo. A Musician? then he can sing.
   Cyth. That he can excellently; did you never hear
him?
   Chlo. O no: will he be entreated, think you?
   Cyth. I know not. Friend, Mistress Chloe would
fain hear Hermogenes sing: Are you interested in
him?
   Gal. No doubt, his own Humanity will command
him so far, to the satisfaction of so fair a Beauty;
but rather than fail, wee'll all be Suiters to him.
   Her. 'Cannot sing.
   Gal. Pr'y thee, Hermogenes.
   Her. 'Cannot sing.
   Gal. For honour of this Gentlewoman, to whose
House, I know thou maist be ever welcome.
Chlo. That


             Poetaster. 103

   Chlo. That he shall in truth, Sir, if he can sing.
   Ovid. What's that?
   Gal. This Gentlewoman is wooing Hermogenes for a
Song.
   Ovid. A Song? come, he shall not deny her. Her-
mogenes?
   Her. 'Cannot sing.
   Gal. No, the Ladies must do it, he stays but to have
their Thanks acknowledg'd as a Debt to his Cunning.
   Jul. That shall not want: our self will be the first shall
promise to pay him more than thanks, upon a favour so
worthily vouchsaf't.
   Her. Thank you, Madam, but 'will not sing.
   Tib. Tut, the only way to win him, is to abstain from
intreating him.
   Cris. Do you love singing, Lady?
   Chlo. O, passingly.
   Cris. Intreat the Ladies, to intreat me to sing then, I
beseech you.
   Chlo. I beseech your Grace, intreat this Gentleman to
sing.
   Jul. That we will, Chloe; can he sing excellently?
   Chlo. I think so, Madam: for he intreated me, to in-
treat you, to intreat him to sing.
   Cris. Heaven and Earth! would you tell that?
   Jul. Good Sir, let's intreat you to use your Voice.
   Cris. Alas, Madam, I cannot in truth.
   Pla. The Gentleman is modest: I warrant you, he
sings excellently.
   Ovid. Hermogenes, clear your Throat: I see by him,
here's a Gentleman will worthily challenge you.
   Cris. Not I, Sir, I'll challenge no Man.
   Tib. That's your modesty, Sir: but we, out of an
assurance of your excellency, challenge him in your be-
half.
   Cris. I thank you, Gentlemen, I'll do my best.
   Herm. Let that best be good, Sir, you were best.
   Gall. O, this contention is excellent. What is't you
sing, Sir?
   Cris. If I freely may discover, &c. Sir, I'll sing that.
   Ovid. One of your own Compositions, Hermogenes.
He offers you vantage enough.
   Cris. Nay truly, Gentleman, I'll challenge no Man —:
I can sing but one Staff of the Ditty neither.
   Gall. The better: Hermogenes himself will be intreated
to sing the other.

S O N G.
I
F I freely may discover
  What would please me in my Lover:
      I would have her fair and witty,
      Savouring more of Court than City;
      A little proud, but full of pity:
      Light and humorous in her toying,
      Oft building hopes, and soon destroying;
      Long, but sweet in the enjoying;
Neither too easie, nor too hard:
All extreams I would have barr'd.

   Gall. Believe me, Sir, you sing most excellently.
   Ovid. If there were a Praise above Excellence, the
Gentleman highly deserves it.
   Herm. Sir, all this doth not yet make me envy you:
for I know I sing better than you.
   Tib. Attend Hermogenes, now.

I I.

She should be allowed her passions,
So they were but us'd as Fashions;
      Sometimes froward, and then frowning,
      Sometimes sickish, and then swooning,
      Every Fit with change still crowning.

[column break]

      Purely jealous, I would have her,
      Then only constant when I crave her.
      'Tis a Vertue should not save her.
Thus, nor her delicates would cloy me,
Neither her peevishness annoy me.

   Jul. Nay, Hermogenes, your Merit hath long since
been both known, and admir'd of us.
   Herm. You shall hear me sing another: now will I
begin.
   Gall. We shall do this Gentlemans Banquet too much
wrong, that stays for us, Ladies.
   Jul. 'Tis true: and well thought on, Cornelius Gallus.
   Her. Why 'tis but a short Air, 'twill be done present-
ly, pray' stay; strike Musick.
   Ovid. No, good Hermogenes: we'll end this difference
within.
   Jul. 'Tis the common Disease of all your Musicians,
that they know no mean, to be intreated either to begin
or end.
   Alb. Please you lead the way, Gentiles?
   All. Thanks, good Albius.
   Alb. O, what a Charm of Thanks was here put upon
me! O Jove, what a setting forth it is to a Man, to have
many Courtiers come to his House! Sweetly was it said
of a good old House-keeper; I had rather want Meat
than want Guests: especially if they be courtly Guests.
For, never trust me, if one of their good Legs made
in a House, be not worth all the good Chear a Man can
make them. He that would have fine Guests, let him
have a fine Wife; he that would have a fine Wife, let
him come to me.
   Cris. By your kind leave, Master Albius.
   Alb. What, you are not gone, Master Crispinus?
   Cris. Yes faith, I have a design draws me hence:
pray' Sir, fashion me an Excuse to the Ladies.
   Alb. Will you not stay, and see the Jewels, Sir? I
pray you stay.
   Cris. Not for a Million, Sir, now. Let it suffice, I
must relinquish; and so in a word, please you to ex-
piate this Complement.
   Alb. Mum.
   Cris. I'll presently go and enghle some Broker, for a
Poets Gown, and bespeak a Garland: and then Jeweller,
look to your best Jewel y' faith.


Act III.    Scene I.

Horace, Crispinus.

H
Ah? yes; I will begin an Ode so: and it shall be
 to Mecœnas.
   Cris. 'Slid, yonder's Horace! they say he's an
excellent Poet: Mecœnus loves him. I'll fall into his ac-
quaintance, if I can; I think he be composing as he
goes i' the Street! ha? 'tis a good humour, if he be:
I'll compose too.
[Hor. Lib.         
 1. Sut. 9.
   Hor. Swell me a Bowl with lusty Wine,
Till I may see the plump Lyæus swim
                         Above the brim:
I drink, as I would write,
In flowing measure, fill'd with flame and sprite.
   Cris. Sweet Horace, Minerva, and the Muses stand au-
spicious to thy designs. How far'st thou, sweet Man?
Frolick? Rich? Gallant? ha?
   Hor. Not greatly Gallant, Sir, like my Fortunes;
well.
I am bold to take my leave, Sir, you'll nought else, Sir,
would you?
   Cris. Troth, no, but I could wish thou did'st know us
Horace, we are a Schollar, I assure thee.
   Hor. A Schollar, Sir? I shall be covetous of your fair
knowledg.

Cris.


104 Poetaster.                     

   Cri. Gramercy, good Horace. Nay we are new turn'd
Poet too, which is more; and a Satyrist too, which is
more than that: I write just in thy vein, I. I am for
your Odes or your Sermones, or any thing indeed; we
are a Gentleman besides: our name is Rufus Laberius
Crispinus, we are a pretty Stoick too.
   Hor. To the proportion of your Beard, I think it,
Sir.
   Cri. By Phœbus, here's a most neat fine Street, is't not?
I protest to thee, I am enamour'd of this Street now,
more than of half the Streets of Rome again; 'tis so polite,
and terse! There's the Front of a Building now. I stu-
dy Architecture too: if ever I should build, I'ld have a
House just of that Prospective.
   Hor. Doubtless, this Gallants Tongue has a good turn,
when he sleeps.
   Cris. I do make Verses, when I come in such a Street
as this: O your City-Ladies, you shall ha' 'em sit in e-
very Shop like the Muses — off'ring you the Castalian
Dews, and the Thespian Liquors, to as many as have but
the sweet Grace and Audacity to — sip of their Lips.
Did you never hear any of my Verses?
   Hor. No, Sir (but I am in some fear I must now.)
   Cris. I'll tell the some (if I can but recover 'em) I
compos'd e'en now of a dressing, I saw a Jewellers
Wife wear, who indeed was a Jewel her self: I prefer
that kind of Tire now, what's thy opinion, Horace?
   Hor. With your Silver Bodkin, it does well, Sir.
   Cris. I cannot tell, but it stirs me more than all your
Court-curls, or your Spangles, or your Tricks: I affect
not these high Gable-ends, these Tuscane Tops, nor your
Coronets, nor your Arches, nor your Pyramid's; give
me a fine sweet — little delicate dressing with a Bod-
kin, as you say: and a Mushrome, for all your other
Ornatures.
   Hor. Is't not possible to make an escape from him?
   Cris. I have remitted my Verses, all this while, I think,
I ha' forgot 'em.
   Hor. Here's he, could wish you had else.
   Cris. Pray Jove, I can entreat 'em of my Memory.
   Hor. You put your memory to too much trouble, Sir.
   Cris. No sweet Horace, we must not have thee think
so.
   Hor. I cry you mercy; then, they are my Ears
That must be tortur'd: well, you must have patience
Ears.
   Cris. Pray thee, Horace, observe.
   Hor. Yes, Sir: your Sattin Sleeve begins to fret at the
Rug that is underneath it, I do observe: And your ample
velvet Bases are not without evident stains of a hot dis-
position naturally.
   Cris. O — I'll dye them into another Colour, at plea-
sure: how many yards of Velvet dost thou think they
contain?
   Hor. I have put him now in a fresh way
To vex me more: Faith, Sir, your Mercers Book
Will tell you with more patience, than I can.
(For I am crost, and so's not that, I think.)
   Cris. 'Slight, these Verses have lost me again: I shall
not invite 'em to mind, now.
   Hor. Rack not your thoughts, good Sir; rather defer it
To a new time; I'll meet you at your Lodging,
Or where you please: Till then, Jove keep you, Sir.
   Cris. Nay, gentle Horace, stay; I have it, now.
   Hor. Yes, Sir. Apollo, Hermes, Jupiter, look down up-
on me.

   Cri. Rich was thy hap, sweet dainty Cap,
                There to be placed:
         Where thy smooth black, sleek white may smack,
                And both be graced.

White is there usurpt for her Brow; her Fore-head: and
then sleek, as the paralel to smooth, that went before. A

[column break]

kind of Paranomasie, or Agnomination: do you conceive,
Sir?
   Hor. Excellent. Troth, Sir, I must be abrupt and leave
you.
   Cris. Why what haste hast thou? pr'y thee stay a lit-
tle; thou shalt not go yet, by Phœbus.
   Hor, I shall not? what Remedy? Fie, how I sweat
with Suffering!
   Cris. And then —
   Hor. Pray, Sir, give me leave to wipe my Face a
little.
   Cris. Yes, do, good Horace.
   Hor. Thank you, Sir.
Death! I must crave his leave to piss anon;
Or that I may go hence with half my Teeth:
I am in some such fear. This Tyranny
Is strange, to take mine Ears up by Commission,
(Whether I will or no) and make them Stalls
To his lewd Solecisms, and worded Trash.
Happy thou, bold Bolanus, now I say;
Whose freedom, and impatience of this fellow,
Would long ere this, have call'd him Fool, and Fool,
And rank, and tedious Fool, and have slung Jests
As hard as Stones, till thou hadst pelted him
Out of the place: whil'st my tame Modesty
Suffers my Wit be made a solemn Ass
To bear his Fopperies —
   Cris. Horace, thou art miserably affected to be gone,
I see. But — pr'y thee, let's prove to enjoy thee a while.
Thou hast no business, I assure me. Whether is thy
journey directed? ha?
   Hor. Sir, I am going to visit a friend that's sick.
   Cris. A Friend? What's he? do not I know him?
   Hor. No, Sir, you do not know him; and 'tis not the
worse for him.
   Cris. What's his Name? where's he lodg'd?
   Hor. Where I shall be fearful to draw you out of
your way, Sir; a great way hence; pray', Sir, let's
part.
   Cris. Nay, but where is't? I pr'y thee, say.
   Hor. On the far side of all Tyber yonder, by Cæsars
Gardens.
   Cris. O that's my course directly; I am for you.
Come go; why stand'st thou?
   Hor. Yes, Sir: marry the Plague is in that part of
the City; I had almost forgot to tell you, Sir.
   Cri. Fough, it is no matter, I fear no Pestilence, I
ha' not offended Phæbus.Phoebus
   Hor. I have, it seems, or else this heavy Scourge
Could ne'er have lighted on me —
   Cris. Come, along.
   Hor. I am to go down some half mile, this way, Sir,
first, to speak with his Physician: And from thence to
his Apothecary, where I shall stay the mixing of divers
Drugs ——
   Cris. Why, it's all one, I have nothing to do, and I
love not to be idle, I'll bear thee company. How call'st
thou the Apothecary?
   Hor. O that I knew a name would fright him now.
Sir Rhadamanthus, Rhadamanthus, Sir.
There's one so call'd, is a just Judge in Hell,
And doth inflict strange Vengeance on all those,
That (here on Earth) torment poor patient Spirits.
   Cris. He dwells at the three Furies, by Janus's
Temple?
   Hor. Your 'Pothecary does, Sir.
   Cris. Heart, I owe him Money for Sweet-meats, and
he has laid to arrest me, I hear: but —
   Hor. Sir, I have made a most solemn vow, I will
never bail any Man.
   Cris. Well then, I'll swear, and speak him fair, if the
worst come. But his name is Minos, not Rhadaman-
thus, Horace.

Hor. That


             Poetaster. 105

   Hor. That may be, Sir: I but guess'd at his Name by
his Sign. But your Minos is a Judge too, Sir?
   Cris. I protest to thee, Horace, (do but taste me once)
if I do know my self, and mine own Vertues truly, thou
wilt not make that esteem of Varius, or Virgil, or Tibul-
lus, or any of 'em indeed, as now in thy ignorance thou
dost; which I am content to forgive: I would fain see
which of these could pen more Verses in a day, or with
more facility, than I; or that could court his Mistris,
kiss her Hand, make better sport with her Fan, or her
Dog ——
   Hor. I cannot bail you yet, Sir.
   Cris. Or that could move his Body more gracefully,
or dance better: You should see me, were it not i' the
Street ——
   Hor. Nor yet.
   Cris. Why, I have been a Reveller, and at my Cloth
of Silver Sute, and my long Stocking, in my time, and
will be again ——
   Hor. If you may be trusted, Sir.
   Cris. And then for my singing, Hermogenes himself
envies me, that is your only Master of Musick you have
in Rome.
   Hor. Is your Mother living, Sir?
   Cris. Au: Convert thy Thoughts to somewhat else,
I pray thee.
   Hor. You have much of the Mother in you, Sir:
Your Father is dead?
   Cris. I, I thank Jove, and my Grandfather too, and
all my Kinsfolks, and well compos'd in their Urns.
   Hor. The more their happiness, that rest in peace,
Free from th' abundant Torture of thy Tongue:
Would I were with them too.   Cris. What's that, Horace?
   Hor. I now remember me, Sir, of a sad Fate
A Cunning Woman, one Sabella, sung,
When in her Urn she cast my Destiny,
I being but a Child.   Cris. What was't, I pray thee?
   Hor. She told me I should surely never perish
By Famine, Poison, or the Enemies Sword;
The Hectick Fever, Cough, or Pleurisie
Should never hurt me, nor the tardy Gout:
But in my time I should be once surpriz'd
By a strong tedious Talker, that should vex
And almost bring me to Consumption:
Therefore, (if I were wise) she warn'd me shun
All such long-winded Monsters, as my Bane:
For if I could but scape that one Discourser,
I might (no doubt) prove an old aged man.
By your leave, Sir.
   Cris. Tut, tut; abandon this idle Humour, 'tis nothing
but Melancholy. 'Fore Jove, now I think on't, I am to
appear in Court here, to answer to one that has me in
Suit: Sweet Horace, go with me, this is my Hour; if I
neglect it, the Law proceeds against me. Thou art fa-
miliar with these things; pr'y thee, if thou lov'st me, go.
   Hor. Now, let me die, Sir, if I know your Laws,
Or have the power to stand still half so long
In their loud Courts, as while a Case is argued.
Besides, you know, Sir, where I am to go,
And the necessity ——
   Cris. 'Tis true: —
   Hor. I hope the Hour of my Release be come: He
will (upon this Consideration) discharge me, sure.
   Cris. Troth, I am doubtful what I may best do; whe-
ther to leave thee, or my Affairs, Horace.
   Hor. O Jupiter! me, Sir, me, by any means: I beseech
you, me, Sir.
   Cris. No faith, I'll venture those now; thou shalt see I
love thee: Come, Horace.
   Hor. Nay, then I am desperate: I follow you, Sir.
'Tis hard contending with a Man that overcomes thus.
   Cris. And how deals Mecœnas with thee? liberally? ha?
Is he open-handed? bountiful?
   Hor. He's still himself, Sir.

[column break]

   Cris. Troth, Horace, thou art exceeding happy in thy
Friends and Acquaintance; they are all most choice
Spirits, and of the first Rank of Romans: I do not know
that Poet, I protest, has us'd his Fortune more prospe-
rously than thou hast. If thou wouldst bring me known
to Mecœnas, I should second thy Desert well; thou
shouldst find a good sure Assistant of me, one that
would speak all good of thee in thy absence, and be
content with the next Place, not envying thy Reputa-
tion with thy Patron. Let me not live, but I think
thou and I (in a small time) should lift them all out of
Favour, both Virgil, Varius, and the best of them, and
enjoy him wholly to our selves.
   Hor. Gods, you do know it, I can hold no longer;
This Brize hath prickt my Patience: Sir, your Silkness
Clearly mistakes Mecœnas, and his House,
To think there breaths a Spirit beneath his Roof
Subject unto those poor Affections
Of undermining Envy and Detraction,
Moods only proper to base groveling Minds.
That Place is not in Rome, I dare affirm,
More pure or free from such low common Evils.
There's no man griev'd, that this is thought more rich,
Or this more learned; each man hath his Place,
And to his Merit his Reward of Grace:
Which with a mutual Love they all embrace.
   Cris. You report a Wonder! 'tis scarce credible, this.
   Hor. I am no Torture, to enforce you to believe it;
but 'tis so.
   Cris. Why, this enflames me with a more ardent de-
sire to be his, than before: but I doubt I shall find the
entrance to his Familiarity somewhat more than difficult,
Horace.
   Hor. Tut, you'll conquer him, as you have done me:
There's no standing out against you, Sir, I see that: Ei-
ther your Importunity, or the intimation of your good
Parts, or ——
   Cris. Nay, I'll bribe his Porter, and the Grooms of his
Chamber, make his Doors open to me that way first;
and then I'll observe my Times. Say he should extrude
me his House to day, shall I therefore desist, or let fall
my Suit to morrow? No; I'll attend him, follow him,
meet him i' the Street, the High-ways, run by his Coach,
never leave him. What? Man hath nothing given him
in this Life, without much Labour.
   Hor. And Impudence.
Archer of Heaven, Phœbus, take thy Bow,
And with a full drawn Shaft nail to the Earth
This Python, that I may yet run hence, and live:
Or brawny Hercules, do thou come down,
And (though thou mak'st it up thy Thirteenth Labour)
Rescue me from this Hydra of Discourse here.

Act III.    Scene II.

Aristius, Horace, Crispinus.

H
Orace, well met.   Hor. O welcome, my Reliever;
 Aristius, as thou lov'st me, ransom me.
   Ari. What ail'st thou, Man?   Hor. 'Death, I am seis'd on here
By a Land-Remora; I cannot stir,
Not move, but as he pleases.   Cris. Wilt thou go, Horace?
   Hor. Heart! He cleaves to me like Alcides Shirt,
Tearing my Flesh and Sinews: O, I ha' been vext
And tortur'd with him, beyond forty Fevers.
For Jove's sake, find some means to take me from him.
   Ari. Yes, I will: but I'll go first and tell Mecœnas.
   Cris. Come, shall we go?
   Ari. The Jest will make his Eyes run, i' faith.
   Hor. Nay, Aristius?   Ari. Farewell, Horace.
   Hor. 'Death! will a' leave me? Fuscus Aristius, do
you hear? Gods of Rome! You said, you had some-
what to say to me in private.
   Ari. I, but I see you are now employ'd with that
P                                Gentleman;                    


106 Poetaster.                     

Gentleman; 'twere Offence to trouble you: I'll take
some fitter Opportunity: Farewell.
   Hor. Mischief and Torment! O my Soul and Heart,
How are you crampt with Anguish! Death it self
Brings not the like Convulsions. O, this day,
That ever I should view thy tedious face ——
   Cris. Horace, what Passion, what Humour is this?
   Hor. Away, good Prodigie afflict me not.
(A Friend, and mock me thus!) Never was man
So left under the Ax —— How now?

Act III.    Scene III.

Minos, Lictors, Crispinus, Horace.

T
Hat's he, in the embroider'd Hat there, with the
 Ash-colour'd Feather: His Name is Laberius Cri-
spinus.
   Lic. Laberius Crispinus, I arrest you in the Emperor's
Name.
   Cris. Me, Sir? do your arrest me?
   Lic. I, Sir, at the Suit of Master Minos the 'Po-
thecary.
   Hor. Thanks, great Apollo: I will not slip thy Favour
offered me in my Escape, for my Fortunes.
   Cris. Master Minos? I know no Master Minos. Where's
Horace? Horace, Horace.
   Min. Sir, do not you know me?
   Cris. O yes, I know you, Master Minos; cry you
mercy. But Horace? Gods me, is he gone?
   Min. I, and so would you too, if you knew how.
Officer, look to him.
   Cris. Do you hear, Master Minos? Pray let's be us'd
like a Man of our own Fashion. By Janus and Jupiter,
I meant to have paid you next Week, every Drachm.
Seek not to eclipse my Reputation thus vulgarly.
   Min. Sir, your Oaths cannot serve you; you know
I have forborn you long.
   Cris. I am conscious of it, Sir. Nay, I beseech you,
Gentlemen, do not exhale me thus; remember 'tis but
for Sweet-meats —
   Lic. Sweet Meat must have sowr Sauce, Sir. Come
along.
   Cris. Sweet Master Minos, I am forfeited to eternal
Disgrace, if you do not commiserate. Good Officer,
be not so officious.

Act III.    Scene IV.

Tucca, Pyrgus, Minos, Lictors, Crispinus, Histrio,
Demetrius.

W
Hy, how now, my good brace of Blood-hounds?
 Whither do you drag the Gentleman? You
Mungrels, you Curs, you Bandogs; we are Captain
Tucca that talk to you, you inhumane Pilchers.
   Min. Sir, he is their Prisoner.
   Tuc. Their Pestilence! What are you, Sir?
   Min. A Citizen of Rome, Sir.
   Tuc. Then you are not far distant from a Fool, Sir.
   Min. A Pothecary, Sir.
   Tuc. I knew thou wast not a Physician; fough; out
of my Nostrils, thou stink'st of Lotium and the Syringe:
away, Quacksalver. Follower, my Sword.
   Pyr. Here, noble Leader, you'll do no harm with it:
I'll trust you.
   Tuc. Do you hear, you Good-man Slave? Hook, Ram,
Rogue, Catch-pole, loose the Gentleman, or by my Vel-
vet Arms ——
   Lic. What will you do, Sir?
   Tuc, Kiss thy Hand, my honourable active Varlet,
[The Officer strikes up his Heels.
and embrace thee thus.
   Pyr. O patient Metamorphosis!
   Tuc. My Sword, my tall Rascal.

[column break]

   Lic. Nay, soft, Sir: Some wiser than some.
   Tuc. What? and a Wit too! By Pluto, thou must be
cherish'd, Slave; here's three Drachms for thee; hold.
   Pyr. There's half his Lendings gone.
   Tuc. Give me.
   Lic. No, Sir, your first Word shall stand: I'll hold all.
   Tuc. Nay, but, Rogue ——
   Lic. You would make a Rescue of our Prisoner, Sir,
you.
   Tuc. I a Rescue? Away, inhumane Varlet. Come,
come, I never rellish above one Jest at most; do not
disgust me, Sirrah, do not: Rogue, I tell thee, Rogue,
do not.
   Lic. How, Sir? Rogue?
   Tuc. I, why! Thou art not angry, Rascal, art thou?
   Lic. I cannot tell, Sir; I am little better, upon these
Terms.
   Tuc. Ha! Gods and Friends! Why, dost hear, Rogue
thou? give me thy Hand; I say unto thee, thy Hand,
Rogue. What, dost not thou know me? not me, Rogue?
not Captain Tucca, Rogue?
   Min. Come pra' surrender the Gentleman his Sword,
Officer; we'll have no fighting here.
   Tuc. What's thy Name?
   Min. Minos, an't please you.
   Tuc. Minos? Come hither, Minos; thou art a wise
Fellow, it seems; let me talk with thee.
   Cris. Was ever Wretch so wretched as unfortunate I?
   Tuc. Thou art one of the Centum-viri, old Boy, art
not?
   Min. No indeed, Master Captain.
   Tuc. Go to, thou shalt be then; I'll ha' thee one, Mi-
nos. Take my Sword from those Rascals, dost thou see?
go, do it; I cannot attempt with patience. What do's
this Gentleman owe thee, little Minos?
   Min. Fourscore Sesterties, Sir.
   Tuc. What, no more? Come, thou shalt release him,
Minos: What, I'll be his Bail, thou shalt take my Word,
old Boy, and cashire these Furies: Thou shalt do't, I
say, thou shalt, little Minos, thou shalt.
   Cris. Yes; and as I am a Gentleman, and a Reveller,
I'll make a Piece of Poetry, and absolve all, within
these five days.
   Tuc. Come, Minos is not to learn how to use a Gent'-
man of Quality, I know: My Sword: If he pay thee
not, I will, and I must, old Boy. Thou shalt be my
'Pothecary too. Hast good Eringo's, Minos?
   Min. The best in Rome, Sir.
   Tuc. Go to then —— Vermine, know the House.
   Pyr. I warrant you, Colonel.
   Tuc. For this Gentleman, Minos?
   Min. I'll take your Word, Captain.
   Tuc. Thou hast it. My Sword —
   Min. Yes, Sir: But you must discharge the Arrest,
Master Crispinus.
   Tuc. How, Minos? Look in the Gentleman's Face,
and but read his Silence. Pay, pay; 'tis Honour, Minos.
   Cris. By Jove, sweet Captain, you do most infinitely
endear and oblige me to you.
   Tuc. Tut, I cannot complement, by Mars; but Jupi-
ter love me, as I love good Words, and good Clothes, and
there's an end. Thou shalt give my Boy that Girdle and
Hangers, when thou hast worn them a little more —
   Cris. O Jupiter! Captain, he shall have them now
presently: Please you to be acceptive, young Gentleman.
   Pyr. Yes, Sir, fear not; I shall accept; I have a pretty
foolish humour of taking, if you knew all.
   Tuc. Not now, you shall not take, Boy.
   Cris. By my truth, and earnest, but he shall, Captain,
by your leave.
   Tuc. Nay, and a' swear by his truth, and earnest, take
it, Boy: do not make a Gent'man forsworn.
   Lic. Well, Sir, there's your Sword; but thank Master
Minos; you had not carried it as you do else.
Tuc. Minos


             Poetaster. 107

   Tuc. Minos is just, and you are Knaves, and ——
   Lic. What say you, Sir?
   Tuc. Pass on, my good Scoundrel, pass on, I honour
thee: But that I hate to have action with such base
Rogues as these, you should ha' seen me unrip their No-
ses now, and have sent 'em to the next Barbers to stich-
ing: for, do you see — I am a Man of Humour, and
I do love the Varlets, the honest Varlets they have Wit
and Valour, and are indeed good profitable — errant
Rogues, as any live in an Empire. Dost thou hear Poe-
taster? second me. Stand up (Minos) close, gather, yet,
so. Sir, (thou shalt have a Quarter-share, be resolute)
you shall, at my request, take Minos by the Hand here,
little Minos, I will have it so; all Friends, and a Health:
be not inexorable. And thou shalt impart the Wine, old
Boy, thou shalt do't, little Minos, thou shalt; make us
pay it in our Physick. What? we must live, and ho-
nour the Gods sometimes; now Bacchus, now Comus, now
Priapus; every God a little. What's he that stalks by
there, Boy, Pyrgus? You were best let him pass, Sirrah;
do, Ferret, let him pass, do.
   Pyr. 'Tis a Player, Sir.
   Tuc. A Player? Call him, call the lowsie Slave hi-
ther: What, will he sail by, and not once strike, or vail
to a Man of War? ha? Do you hear? you Player,
Rogue, Stalker, come back here: No respect to Men of
Worship, you Slave? What, you are proud, you Rascal,
are your proud? ha? You grow rich, do you, and purchase,
you two-peny Tear-mouth? You have Fortune, and the
good Year on your side, you Stinkard, you have, you have.
   His. Nay, sweet Captain, be confin'd to some Rea-
son; I protest I saw you not, Sir.
   Tuc. You did not? Where was your sight, Oedipus?
You walk with Hares Eyes do you? I'll ha' 'em glaz'd,
Rogue; and you say the word, they shall be glaz'd for
you: Come, we must have you turn Fidler again, Slave,
get a Base Violin at your back, and march in a Tawny
Coat, with one Sleeve, to Goose-Fair; then you'll
know us, you'll see us then, you will, Gulch, you will.
Then, Will't please your Worship to have any Musick,
Captain?
   His. Nay, good Captain.
   Tuc. What, do you laugh, Owleglas? Death, you per-
stemptuous Varlet, I am none of your Fellows: I have
commanded a hundred and fifty such Rogues, I.
   1 Pyr. I, and most of that hundred and fifty have
been Leaders of a Legion.
   His. If I have exhibited wrong, I'll tender Satisfacti-
on, Captain.
   Tuc. Saist thou so, honest Vermin? Give me thy
Hand; thou shalt make us a Supper one of these Nights.
   His. When you please, by Jove, Captain, most wil-
lingly.
   Tuc. Dost thou swear? To morrow then; say and
hold, Slave. There are some of you Players honest
Gent'men-like Scoundrels, and suspected to ha' some
Wit, as well as your Poets, both at Drinking, and break-
ing of Jests, and are Companions for Gallants. A man
may skelder ye, now and then, of half a dozen Shil-
lings, or so. Dost thou not know that Pantalabus there?
   His. No, I assure you, Captain.
   Tuc. Go, and be acquainted with him then; he is a
Gent'man, parcel Poet, you Slave; his Father was a
Man of Worship, I tell thee. Go, he pens high, lofty,
in a new stalking Strain, bigger than half the Rhimers
i' the Town again: He was born to fill thy Mouth,
Minotaurus, he was; he will teach thee to tear and
rand. Rascal, to him, cherish his Muse, go; thou hast
forty, forty, Shillings, I mean, Stinkard; give him
in earnest, do, he shall write for thee, Slave. If he pen
for thee once, thou shalt not need to travel with thy
Pumps full of Gravel any more, after a blind Jade and
a Hamper, and stalk upon Boards and Barrel-heads to
an old crackt Trumpet ——

[column break]

   His. Troth, I think I ha' not so much about me,
Captain.
   Tuc. It's no matter; give him what thou hast: Stiff-
toe, I'll give my Word for the rest; though it lack a
Shilling or two, it skills not: Go, thou art an honest
Shifter; I'll ha' the Statute repeal'd for thee. Minos, I must
tell thee, Minos, thou hast dejected yon Gent'mans Spirit
exceedingly? Dost observe, dost note, little Minos?
   Min. Yes, Sir.
   Tuc. Go to then, raise, recover, do: Suffer him not
to droop, in prospect of a Player, a Rogue, a Stager:
Put twenty into his Hand, twenty Sesterces, I mean, and
let no body see: Go, do it, the Work shall commend it
self; be Minos, I'll pay.
   Min. Yes forsooth, Captain.
   2 Pyr. Do not we serve a notable Shark?
   Tuc. And what new Matters have we now afoot,
Sirrah? ha? I would fain come with my Cockatrice
one day, and see a Play, if I knew when there were
a good bawdy one; but they say, you ha' nothing but
Humours, Revels, and Satyrs, that gird and fart at the
time, you Slave.
   His. No, I assure you, Captain, not we. They are
on the other side of Tyber: We have as much Ribaldry
in our Plays as can be, as you would wish, Captain:
All the Sinners i' the Suburbs come, and applaud our
Action, daily.
   Tuc. I hear, you'll bring me o' the Stage there;
you'll play me, they say; I shall be presented by a sort
of Copper-lac't Scoundrels of you: Life of Pluto! an'
you Stage me, Stinkard, your Mansions shall sweat
for't, your Tabernacles, Varlets, your Globes, and your
Triumphs.
   His. Not we, by Phœbus, Captain; do not do us im-
putation, without desert.
   Tuc. I wu'not, my good two-peny Rascal; reach me
thy Neuf. Dost hear? What wilt thou give me a Week
for my brace of Beagles here, my little Point-trussers?
You shall ha' them act among ye. Sirrah, you, pro-
nounce. Thou shalt hear him speak in King Darius
doleful Strain.
   1 Pyr. O doleful Days! O direful deadly Dump!
O wicked World, and worldly Wickedness!
How can I hold my Fist from crying, Thump,
In rue of this right raskal Wretchedness!
   Tuc. In an amorous Vein now, Sirrah: Peace.
   1 Pyr. O, she is wilder, and more hard, withal,
Than Beast, or Bird, or Tree, or stony Wall.
Yet might she love me, to uprear her State:
I, but perhaps she hopes some nobler Mate.
Yet might she love me, to content her Fire:
I, but her Reason masters her Desire.
Yet might she love me as her Beauties Thrall:
I, but I fear, she cannot love at all.
   Tuc. Now, the horrible fierce Soldier, you, Sirrah.
   1 Pyr. What? will I brave thee? I, and Beard thee too.
A Roman Spirit scorns to bear a Brain
So full of base Pusillanimity.
   Dem. Hist. Excellent.
   Tuc. Nay, thou shalt see that shall ravish thee anon;
prick up thine Ears, Stinkard: The Ghost, Boys.
   1 Pyr. Vindicta.
   2 Pyr. Timoria.
   1 Pyr. Vindicta.
   2 Pyr. Timoria.
   1 Pyr. Veni.
   2 Pyr. Veni.
   Tuc. Now thunder, Sirrah, you, the rumbling
Player.
   1 Pyr. I, but some body must cry (Murder) then in a
small voice.
   Tuc. Your Fellow-sharer there shall do't: Cry, Sirrah,
cry.
   1 Pyr. Murder, murder.
P 2                               2 Pyr.  


108 Poetaster.                     

   2 Pyr. Who calls out Murder? Lady, was it you?
   Dem. Hist. O, admirable good, I protest.
   Tuc. Sirrah, Boy, brace your Drum a little straiter,
and do the t'other Fellow there, he in the — what sha'
call him —— and yet stay too.
   2 Pyr. Nay, and thou dalliest, then I am thy Foe,
And Fear shall force what Friendship cannot win;
Thy Death shall bury what thy Life conceals,
Villain! thou diest, for more respecting her ——
   1 Pyr. O, stay my Lord.
   2 Pyr. Than me:
Yet speak the Truth, and I will guerdon thee;
But if thou dally once again, thou diest.
   Tuc. Enough of this, Boy.
   2 Pyr. Why then lament therefore: damn'd be thy Guts un-
to King Pluto's Hell, and Princely Erebus; for Sparrows
must have Food.
   His. 'Pray, sweet Captain, let one of them do a little
of a Lady.
   Tuc. O! he will make thee eternally enamour'd of
him, there: Do, Sirrah, do; 'twill allay your Fellow's
Fury a little.
   1 Pyr. Master, mock on; the Scorn thou givest me,
              Pray Jove some Lady may return on thee.
   2 Pyr. No, you shall see me do the Moor: Master,
lend me your Scarf a little.
   Tuc. Here, 'tis at thy service, Boy.
   2 Pyr. You, Master Minos, heark hither a little.
[They withdraw to make themselves ready.

   Tuc. How dost like him? art not rapt? art not
tickled now? dost not applaud, Rascal? dost not
applaud?
   His. Yes: What will you ask for 'em a Week, Cap-
tain?
   Tuc. No, you mangonizing Slave, I will not part
from 'em; you'll sell 'em for Enghles, you: Let's ha'
good Chear to morrow night at Supper, Stalker, and
then we'll talk; good Capon and Plover, do you hear,
Sirrah? and do not bring your eating Player with you
there; I cannot away with him: He will eat a Leg of
Mutton while I am in my Porridge, the lean Polupha-
gus, his Belly is like Barathrum, he looks like a Midwife
in Man's Apparel, the Slave: Nor the villainous out-of-
tune Fidler Ænobarbus, bring not him. What hast thou
there? six and thirty? ha?
   His. No, here's all I have (Captain) some five and
twenty: Pray Sir, will you present, and accommodate
it unto the Gentleman; for mine own part, I am a
meer Stranger to his Humour; besides, I have some Bu-
siness invites me hence, with Master Asinius Lupus the
Tribune.
   Tuc. Well, go thy ways, pursue thy Projects, let me
alone with this Design; my Poetaster shall make thee a
Play, and thou shalt be a Man of good Parts in it. But
stay, let me see; do not bring your Æsope, your Politi-
cian, unless you can ram up his Mouth with Cloves; the
Slave smells ranker than some sixteen Dunghils, and is
seventeen times more rotten: Mary, you may bring
Frisker, my Zany: he's a good skipping Swaggerer; and
your fat Fool there, my Mango, bring him too; but let
him not beg Rapiers nor Scarfs, in his over-familiar
playing Face, nor roar out his barren bold Jests with a
tormenting Laughter, between drunk and dry. Do
you hear, Stiff-toe? Give him warning, admonition, to
forsake his sawcy glavering Grace, and his Goggle-eye;
it does not become him, Sirrah; tell him so. I have
stood up and defended you, I, to Gent'men, when you
have been said to prey upon Pu'nees, and honest Citi-
zens, for Socks or Buskins; or when they ha' call'd you
Usurers or Broakers, or said, you were able to help to a
piece of Flesh — I have sworn, I did not think so;
nor that you were the common Retreats for Punks de-
cay'd i' their Practice: I cannot believe it of you —
   His. Thank you, Captain: Jupiter and the rest of

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the Gods confine your modern Delights, without dis-
gust.
   Tuc. Stay, thou shalt see the Moor e're thou goest.
What's he with the Half-arms there, that salutes us out
of his Cloke, like a Motion? ha?
   His. O, Sir, his Doublet's a little decay'd; he is o-
therwise a very simple honest Fellow, Sir, one Deme-
trius, a Dresser of Plays about the Town here; we have
hir'd him to abuse Horace, and bring him in, in a Play,
with all his Gallants; as, Tibullus, Mecœnas, Cornelius
Gallus, and the rest.
   Tuc. And why so, Stinkard?
   His. O, it will get us a huge deal of Money (Cap-
tain) and we have need on't; for this Winter has made
us all poorer than so many starv'd Snakes: No body
comes at us, not a Gentleman, nor a ——
   Tuc. But you know nothing by him, do you, to make
a Play of?
   His. Faith, not much, Captain; but our Author will
devise that that shall serve in some sort.
   Tuc. Why, my Parnassus, here, shall help him, if thou
wilt. Can thy Author do it impudently enough?
   His. O, I warrant you, Captain, and spitefully e-
nough too; he has one of the most overflowing rank
Wits in Rome: He will slander any Man that breathes,
if he disgust him.
   Tuc. I'll know the poor, egregious, nitty Rascal,
an' he have these commendable Qualities, I'll che-
rish him, (stay, here comes the Tartar) I'll make a Ga-
thering for him, I, a Purse, and put the poor Slave
in fresh Rags: Tell him so, to comfort him. Well said,
[The Boy comes in on Minos Shoulders, who
   stalks as he acts.
Boy.

   2 Pyr. Where art thou, Boy? Where is Calipolis?
Fight Earthquakes in the Entrails of the Earth,
And Eastern Whirlwinds in the Hellish Shades;
Some foul Contagion of th' infected Heavens
Blast all the Trees, and in their cursed tops
The dismal Night-raven and tragick Owl
Breed, and become Forerunners of my Fall.
   Tuc. Well, now fare thee well, my honest Peny-
Biter: Commend me to seven Shares and a half, and
remember to morrow —— If you lack a Service,
you shall play in my Name, Raskals; but you shall
buy your own Cloth, and I'll ha' two Shares for my
Countenance. Let thy Author stay with me.
   Dem. Yes, Sir.
   Tuc. 'Twas well done, little Minos, thou didst stalk
well; forgive me that I said thou stunk'st, Minos:
'twas the favour of a Poet, I met sweating in the
Street, hangs yet in my Nostrils.
   Cri. Who? Horace?
   Tuc. I, he; dost thou know him?
   Cri. O, he forsook me most barbarously, I protest.
   Tuc. Hang him, fusty Satyr, he smells all Goat; he
carries a Ram under his Arm-holes, the Slave: I am
the worse when I see him. Did not Minos impart?
   Cri. Yes, here are twenty Drachms he did convey.
   Tuc. Well said, keep 'em, we'll share anon; come,
little Minos.
   Cri. Faith, Captain, I'll be bold to shew you a Mi-
striss of mine, a Jewellers Wife, a Gallant, as we go
along.
   Tuc. There spoke my Genius. Minos, some of thy
Eringoes, little Minos; send. Come hither, Parnassus,
I must ha' thee familiar with my little Locust here,
'tis a good Vermin, they say. See heres Horace, and
old Trebatius, the great Lawyer, in this company; let's
avoid him now, he is too well seconded.



Act


             Poetaster. 109

Act III.    Scene V.

Horace, Trebatius.

Hor. Sat.  
1. lib. 2.
T
Here are to whom I seem excessive sower;
 And past a Satyrs Law, t'extend my power:
Others, that think what ever I have writ
Wants pith, and matter to eternize it;
And that they could, in one Days light, disclose
A thousand Verses, such as I compose.
What shall I do, Trebatius? say.   Treb. Surcease.
   Hor. And shall my Muse admit no more encrease?
   Treb. So I advise.   Hor. An ill Death let me die,
If 'twere not best; but sleep avoids mine Eye,
And I use these, lest Nights should tedious seem.
   Treb. Rather, contend to sleep, and live like them,
That holding Golden sleep in special price,
Rub'd with sweet Oils, swim Silver Tyber thrice,
And every Ev'en, with neat Wine steeped be.
Or, if such love of Writing ravish thee,
Then dare to sing unconquer'd Cæsar's deeds;
Who chears such Actions, with abundant meeds.
   Hor. That, Father, I desire; but when I try,
I feel defects in every faculty:
Nor is't a Labour fit for every Pen,
To paint the horrid Troops of armed Men;
The Launces burst, in Gallia's slaughtred Forces;
Or wounded Parthians, tumbled from their Horses:
Great Cæsar's Wars cannot be fought with words.
   Treb. Yet, what his Vertue in his Peace affords,
His Fortitude, and Justice thou canst show;
As wise Lucilius honour'd Scipio.
   Hor. Of that, my powers shall suffer no neglect,
When such slight Labours may aspire respect:
But, if I watch not a most chosen time,
The humble words of Flaccus cannot clime
Th' attentive Ear of Cæsar; nor must I
With less observance shun gross flattery:
For he, reposed safe in his own merit,
Spurns back the gloses of a fawning spirit.
   Treb. But, how much better would such Accents sound
Than with a sad and serious Verse to wound
Pantolabus, railing in his sawcy Jests?
Or Nomentanus spent in riotous Feasts?
"In Satyrs, each Man (though untoucht) complains
"As he were hurt; and hates such biting strains.
   Hor. What shall I do? Milonius shakes his Heels
In ceasless dances, when his Brain once feels
The stirring fervour of the Wine ascend;
And that his Eyes false numbers apprehend.
Castor his Horse; Pollux loves handy Fights:
A thousand Heads, a thousand choise Delights.
My pleasure is in feet, my words to close,
As, both our better, old Lucilius does:
He, as his trusty Friends, his Books did trust
With all his secrets; nor, in things unjust,
Or actions lawful, ran to other Men:
So that the old Man's life, describ'd was seen
As in a votive Table in his Lines;
And to his steps my Genius inclines;
Lucanian, or Apulian, I not whether;
For the Venusian Colony plows either:
Sent thither, when the Sabines were forc'd thence
(As old Fame sings) to give the place defence
'Gainst such, as seeing it empty, might make rode
Upon the Empire; or there fix abode:
Whether the Apulian borderer it were,
Or the Lucanian violence they fear.
But this my stile no living Man shall touch,
If first I be not forc'd by base reproach;
But, like a sheathed Sword, it shall defend
My innocent life; for, why should I contend

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To draw it out, when no malicious Thief
Robs my good name, the Treasure of my life?
O Jupiter, let it with rust be eaten,
Before it touch, or insolently threaten
The life of any with the least Disease;
So much I love, and wooe a general Peace.
But, he that wrongs me, better I proclaim,
He never had assai'd to touch my fame.
For he shall weep, and walk with every Tongue
Throughout the City, infamously sung.
Servius, the Prætor, threats the Laws, and urn,
If any at his Deeds repine or spurn;
The Witch, Canidia, that Albutius got,
Denounceth Witch-craft, where she loveth not;
Thurius, the Judge, doth thunder worlds of ill;
To such as strive with his judicial will;
"All Men affright their foes in what they may,
"Nature commands it, and Men must obey.
   Observe with me; "The Woolf his Tooth doth use,
"The Bull his Horn. And who doth this infuse,
"But Nature? There's luxurious Scæva; trust
His long-liv'd Mother with him; his so just
And scrupulous Right-hand no mischief will;
No more, than with his Heel a Woolf will kill,
Or Ox with Jaw: marry, let him alone
With temper'd Poison to remove the croan.
   But briefly, if to Age I destin'd be,
Or that quick Deaths black Wings inviron me;
If rich, or poor; at Rome; or fate command
I shall be banish't to some other Land;
What hew soever, my whole state shall bear,
I will write Satyrs still, in spight of fear.
   Treb. Horace, I fear, thou draw'st no lasting Breath:
And that some great Man's Friend will be thy Death.
   Hor. What? when the Man that first did Satyrise,
Durst pull the Skin over the Ears of Vice,
And make, who stood in outward fashion clear,
Give place, as foul within; shall I forbear?
Did Lælius, or the Man, so great with fame,
That from sack't Carthage fetcht his worthy name,
Storm, that Lucilius did Metellus pierce?
Or bury Lupus quick, in famous Verse?
Rulers, and Subjects, by whole Tribes he checkt;
But Vertue, and her Friends did still protect:
And when from Sight, or from the Judgment-seat,
The vertuous Scipio, and wise Lælius met,
Unbrac't, with him in all light Sports, they shar'd;
Till, their most frugal Suppers were prepar'd.
What e're I am, though both for Wealth and Wit,
Beneath Lucilius, I am pleas'd to sit;
Yet, Envy (spight of her empoysoned Breast)
Shall say, I liv'd in grace here, with the best;
And seeking in weak trash to make her wound,
Shall find me solid, and her Teeth unsound:
Less, learn'd Trebatius censure disagree.
   Treb. No, Horace, I of force must yield to thee;
Only, take heed, as being advis'd by me,
Lest thou incur some danger: better pause,
Than rue thy ignorance of the sacred Laws;
There's Justice, and great Action may be su'd
'Gainst such, as wrong Mens Fames with Verses lewd.
   Hor. I, with lewd Verses; such as Libels be,
And aim'd at Persons of good Quality.
I reverence and adore that just Decree:
But if they shall be sharp, yet modest Rhimes
That spare Mens Persons, and but tax their Crimes,
Such shall in open Court, find currant pass;
Were Cæsar Judge, and with the Makers grace.
   Treb. Nay, I'll add more; if thou thy self being clear,
Shalt tax in Person a Man, fit to bear
Shame, and reproach; his Sute shall quickly be
Dissolv'd in laughter, and thou thence sit free.

Act


110 Poetaster.                     

Act IV.    Scene I.

Chloe, Cytheris.

B
UT, sweet Lady, say: am I well enough attir'd for
 the Court, in sadness?
   Cyth. Well enough? excellent well, sweet Mistris
Chloe, this strait-bodied City attire (I can tell you) will
stir a Courtiers Blood, more than the finest loose Sacks
the Ladies use to be put in; and then you are as well
Jewel'd as any of them; your Ruff, and Linen about
you, is much more pure than theirs: And for your Beau-
ty, I can tell you, their's many of them would defie the
Painter, if they could change with you. Marry, the
worst is, you must look to be envied, and endure a few
Court-frumps for