Chapter 11

WIT, SCIENCE, REASON.

WIT. Up and to go, why sleep I here so sound? How falls it out that I am left upon the naked ground? God grant that all be well, whilst I lay dreaming here: Me-thinks all is not as it was, nor as I would it were. And yet I wot not why, but so my fancies gives me, That some one thing or other in my tire[421] that grieves me, They are but fancies, let them go: to Science now will I; My suit and business yet once again to labour and apply.

[_Enter Science and Reason_.

SCIENCE. What is become, trow ye, of Wit, our spouse that would be?

REASON. Daughter, I fear all is not as it should be.

WIT. Yes, yes, have ye no doubt, all is and shall be well.

REASON. What one art thou? thereof how canst thou tell?

WIT. Reason, most noble sir, and you, my lady dear: How have you done in all this time, since first I saw you here?

SCIENCE. The fool is mad, I ween; stand back, and touch me not.

WIT. You speak not as you think, or have you me forgot?

SCIENCE. I never saw thee in my life until this time, I wot; Thou art some mad-brain or some fool, or some disguised sot.[422]

WIT. God's fish-hooks?[423] and know you not me?

SCIENCE. I had been well at ease indeed to be acquainted with thee!

WIT. Hop haliday![424] marry, this is pretty cheer, I have lost myself, I cannot tell where! An old-said saw it is, and too true, I find, Soon hot, soon cold: out of sight, out of mind. What, madam, what meaneth this sudden change? What means this scornful look, this countenance so strange? Is it[425] your fashion so to use your lovers at the first: Or have all women this delight to scold and to be curs'd?

REASON. Good fellow, whence art thou? what is thy name?

WIT. I ween ye are disposed to make at me some game. I am the son of lady Nature; my name is Wit.

REASON. Thou shalt say so long enough, ere we believe it.

SCIENCE. Thou Wit? nay, thou art some mad-brain out of thy wit.

WIT. Unto yourselves this trial I remit. Look on me better, and mark my person well.

SCIENCE. Thy look is like to one, that came out of hell.

REASON. If thou be Wit, let see, what tokens thou canst tell. How cam'st thou first acquainted here? what said we? How did we like thy suit, what entertainment made we?

WIT. What tokens?

SCIENCE. Yea, what tokens? speak, and let us know.

WIT. Tokens good store I can rehearse a-row: First, as I was advised by my mother Nature, My lackey Will presented you with my picture.

SCIENCE. Stay there, now look, how these two faces agree!

WIT. This is the very same that you received from me.

SCIENCE. From thee? why look, they are no more like, Than chalk to cheese, than black to white.

REASON. To put thee out of doubt, if thou think we say not true, It were good for thee in a glass thy face to view.

WIT. Well-remembered, and a glass I have indeed, Which glass you gave me to use at need.

REASON. Hast thou the glass, which I to Wit did give?

WIT. I have it in my purse, and will keep it, while I live.

REASON. This makes[426] me muse how should he come thereby?

WIT. Sir, muse no more, for it is even I, To whom you gave the glass, and here it is.

REASON. We are content thou try thy case by this.

WIT. [_Looking in the glass_. Either my glass is wonderfully spotted, Or else my face is wonderfully blotted. This is not my coat; why, where had I this weed? By the mass, I look like a very fool indeed. O haps of haps, O rueful chance to me! O Idleness, woe-worth the time, that I was ruled by thee! Why did I lay my head within thy lap to rest? Why was I not advis'd by her, that wish'd and will'd[427] me best? O ten times treble[428] blessed wights, whose corps in grave do lie: That are not driven to behold these wretched cares which I[429]! On me you[430] furies all, on me, have poured out your spite, Come now and slay me at the last, and rid my sorrows quite. What coast shall me receive? where shall I show my head? The world will say this same is he that, if he list, had sped. This same is he, that took an enterprise in hand; This same is he that scarce one blow his enemy did withstand. This same is he, that fought and fell in open field: This same is he that in the song of Idleness did yield. This same is he that was in way to win the game: To join himself whereby he should have won immortal fame; And now is wrapp'd in woe, and buried in despair. O happy case for thee, if death would rid thee quite of care!