SCENE V.

RHYMEWELL, BAGSHOT, VICAR CATCHMEY, SIR CHRISTOPHER.

RHYME. Come, my most noble order of the club, 'Cause none will else, let's make much of ourselves: His letter may procure a dinner yet.

BAG. Cheer up, Sir Kit, thou look'st too spiritually: I see too much of the tithepig in thee.

CHRIS. I'm not so happy: Kit's as hungry now As a besieged city, and as dry As a Dutch commentator. This vile world Ne'er thinks of qualities: good truth, I think 'T hath much to answer for. Thy poetry, Rhymewell, and thy voice, Vicar Catchmey, and Thy law too, Bagshot, is contemn'd: 'tis pity Professions should be slighted thus. The day Will come perhaps, when that the commonwealth May need such men as we. There was a time When cobblers were made churchmen; and those black'd Smutch'd creatures thrust into white surplices, Look'd like so many magpies, and did speak Just as they [did], by rote. But now the land Surfeits forsooth: poor labourers in divinity Can't earn their groat a day, unless it be Reading of the Christian burial for the dead; When they, ev'n for that reason, truly thank God for thus taking this their brother to him.

CATCH. Something profane, Sir Christopher!

CHRIS. When I Level my larger thoughts unto the basis Of thy deep shallowness, am I profane? Henceforth I'll speak, or rather not speak, for I will speak darkly.

CATCH. There's one comfort then: You will be brief!

CHRIS. My briefness is prolix. Thy mind is bodily, thy soul corporeal, And all thy subtle faculties are not subtle: Thy subtlety is dulness. I am strong; I will not be conceiv'd by such mechanics.

RHYME. I do conceive you, though, Sir Christopher; My muse doth sometimes take the selfsame flight.

CHRIS. _Pauci, pauci quos æquus amavit._ But quadragesimal wits[193] and fancies, lean As ember weeks (which therefore I call lean, Because they're fat), these I do doom unto A knowing ignorance: he that's conceiv'd By such is not conceiv'd; sense is non-sense, If understood by them. I'm strong again.

RHYME. You err most orthodoxly, sweet Sir Kit.

CHRIS. I love that, though I hate it; and I have A kind of disagreeing consent to't. I'm strong, I'm strong again. Let's keep these two In desperate hope of understanding us: Riddles and clouds are very lights of speech. I'll veil my careless anxious thoughts, as 'twere In a perspicuous cloud, that I may Whisper in a loud voice, and ev'n be silent, When I do utter words. Words did I call them? My words shall be no words, my voice no voice, My noise no noise, my very language silence. I'm strong, I'm strong. Good sir, you understand not!

BAG. Nor do desire: 'tis merely froth and barm, The yeast that makes your thin small sermons work.

CHRIS. Thou hold'st thy peace most vocally. Again!

CATCH. I hate this bilk.

CHRIS. Thou lov'st, 'cause thou dost hate: Thy injuries are courtesies. Strong again!

CATCH. Good Samson, use not this your ass's jaw-bone.

CHRIS. Thou'st got my love by losing it: that earnest Jest hath regain'd my soul. Samson was strong; He killed a thousand with an ass's jaw-bone,

_Enter a_ SERVANT, _as passing by_.

And so will I. 'St! 'st!--good friend, d' y' hear? Here is a letter, friend, to Master Meanwell.

BAG. Any reversions yet? Nothing transmiss'd?

RHYME. No gleanings, James? No trencher-analects?[194]

SER. Parley a little with your stomachs, sirs.

CATCH. There's nothing so ridiculous as the hungry: A fasting man is a good jest at any time.

SER. There is a gentleman without, that will'd me To ask if you'll admit of him among you: He can't endure to be in good company.

CATCH. You're merry, James. Yes, by all means, good James. Admit, quoth he! What else? Pray, send him in. [_Exit_ SERVANT. Let's be resolv'd to fall out now; then he Shall have the glory to compose the quarrel By a good dozen of pacifical beer.

RHYME. BAG. Agreed, agreed.

CHRIS. My coat allows no quarrel.

RHYME. The colour bears't, if you'll venture the stuff. The tenderness of it, I do confess, Somewhat denies a grappling.

CHRIS. I will try: Perhaps my spirit will suggest some anger.

_Enter_ ANDREW.

AND. Save you, boon sparks! Will't please you to admit me?

CHRIS. Your worship graceth us in condescending To level thus your presence, noble[195] sir.

AND. What may I call your name, most reverend sir?

BAG. His name's Sir Kit.

CHRIS. My name is not so short: 'Tis a trisyllable, an't please your worship; But vulgar tongues have made bold to profane it With the short sound of that unhallow'd idol They call a kit. Boy, learn more reverence.

BAG. Yes, to my betters.

AND. Nay, friends, do not quarrel.

CHRIS. It is the holy cause, and I must quarrel. Thou son of parchment, got between the standish And the stiff buckram-bag! thou, that may'st call The pen thy father and the ink thy mother, The sand thy brother and the wax thy sister, And the good pillory thy cousin [once] remov'd-- I say, learn reverence to thy betters.

BAG. Set up an hour-glass; he'll go on, until The last sand make his period.

CHRIS. 'Tis my custom; I do approve the calumny: the words I do acknowledge, but not the disgrace, Thou vile ingrosser of unchristian deeds.

BAG. Good Israel Inspiration, hold your tongue; It makes far better music when you nose Sternhold's or Wisdom's metre.[196]

CATCH. By your leave, You fall on me now, brother.

RHYME. 'Tis by cause You are too forward, brother Catchmey.

CATCH. I too forward!

RHYME. Yes, I say you are too forward-- By the length of your London-measure beard.

CATCH. Thou never couldst entreat that respite yet Of thy dishonesty as to get one hair To testify thy age.

BAG. I'm beardless too; I hope you think not so of me[197].

CHRIS. Yes, verily; Not one hair's difference betwixt you both.

RHYME. Thou violent cushion-thumper, hold thy tongue; The Furies dwell in it!

CATCH. Peace, good Sir Kit.

CHRIS. Sir Kit again! thou art a Lopez. When One of thy legs rots off (which will be shortly), Thou'lt bear about a quire of wicked paper, Defiled with [un]sanctified rhymes And idols in the frontispiece--that I May speak to thy capacity, thou'lt be A ballad-monger.

CATCH. I shall live to see thee Stand in a playhouse door with thy long box, Thy half-crown library, and cry small books. _Buy a good godly sermon, gentlemen--_ _A judgment shown upon a knot of drunkards:_ _A pill to purge out popery: The life_ _And death of Katharine Stubbs._[198]

CHRIS. Thou wilt visit windows. Methinks I hear thee with thy begging tone, About the break of day, waking the brethren Out of their morning-revelations.

AND. Brave sport, i' faith!

RHYME. Pray y', good sir, reconcile them. If that same Justice be i' th' ordinary now, He'll bind them to the peace for troubling him.

BAG. Why should he not, good sir? It is his office.

AND. Now 'tis o' this side: O, for a pair of cudgels!

RHYME. Peace, inkhorn; there's no music in thy tongue.

CATCH. Thou and thy rhyme lie both: the tongue of man Is born to music naturally.

RHYME. Thou thing, Thy belly looks like to some strutting hill, O'ershadow'd with thy rough beard like a wood.

CHRIS. Or like a larger jug, that some men call A Bellarmine, but we a Conscience; Whereon the lewder hand of pagan workman Over the proud ambitious head hath carv'd An idol large with beard episcopal, Making the vessel look like tyrant Eglon.

CATCH. Profane again, Sir Christopher, I take it.

CHRIS. Must I be strong again? Thou human beast, Who'rt only eloquent when thou say'st nothing, And appear'st handsome while thou hid'st thyself, I'm holy, 'cause profane.

AND. Courageous rascals! Brave spirits! soldiers in their days, I warrant!

BAG. Born in the field, I do assure your worship. This quarrelling is meat and drink to them.

RHYME. Thou liest.

BAG. Nay, then I do defy thee thus.

[BAGSHOT _draws his inkhorn, and_ RHYMEWELL _catcheth off_ SIR CHRISTOPHER'S _hat and_ _spectacles_.

RHYME. And thus I am prepar'd to answer thee.

CHRIS. For the good saint's sake, part them: I am blind, If that my spectacles should once miscarry.

RHYME. Caitiff, this holy instrument shall quail thee.

BAG. And this shall send thee to thy cousin furies.

CHRIS. I feel a film come o'er mine eyes already: I must look out an animal conductive-- I mean a dog.

AND. Pray y', beat not out his eyes in Another's hands.

CHRIS. Most strongly urg'd!

CATCH. Your words Are merely wind. James, ho! what, James, some beer. They're mastiff dogs; they wont be parted, sir, Without good store of liquor.

_Enter_ SERVANT, _with beer_.

AND. I will souse them:

SER. Drink to 'em, sir, if that you'll have 'em quiet.

AND. Is that the way? Here's to you, my friends, a whole one.

BAG. Were't not for that good gentleman, thou'dst smoke for't.

RHYME. Had I not vow'd some reverence to his presence, Thou hadst been nothing.

BAG. 'Fore Mars, I was dry. This valour's thirsty: fill to my antagonist.

RHYME. No, mine own dish will serve; I'm singular. Few vessels still do well. I carry this To drink my beer, while others drink their sack. I am abstemious Rhymewell: I hate wine, Since I spake treason last i' th' cellar. Here, Give me thy hand, thou child of fervency. Didst thou mistrust thy spectacles? It was no anger, 'twas a rapture merely.

CHRIS. Drink, and excuse it after. James, your help! Come, man of voice, keep time, while that I drink. This moisture shall dry up all injuries, Which I'll remember only to forget; And so hereafter, which I'm wont to call The future now, I love thee stubbornly. Your beer is like my words, strong, stinging gear.

CATCH. Here, little lawyer, let's be friends hereafter; I love this reconcilement with my heart.

AND. 'Tis the best deed that e'er I did. O' my conscience, I shall make a good justice of the peace. There had been blood shed if I had not stickled.[199]

SER. More blood been spill'd, I warrant, than beer now.

AND. That inkhorn is a deadly dangerous weapon: It hath undone one quarter of the kingdom.

CHRIS. Men should forgive; but thou art far, yea far From it, O Bagshot: thou'rt in 'love with hate. Bless me! I see the fiend still in his looks; He is not reconcilable with drink: He'll ne'er love truly till he eat with me. The nature of his spirit asketh meat; He hath a wolf in's breast: food must appease him.

AND. Cold meat will do it, will't not?

RHYME. Anything That may employ the teeth.

AND. Go, James, provide. You are not merry yet.

CATCH. To satisfy you In that point, we'll sing a song of his.

AND. Let's ha't; I love these ballads hugeously.

_The Song._

1. CATCHMEY.

_Then our music is in prime,_ _When our teeth keep triple time;_ _Hungry notes are fit for knells._ _May lankness be_ _No guest to me:_ _The bagpipe sounds when that it swells._

CHORUS. _May lankness, &c._

2. BAGSHOT.

_A mooting-night[200] brings wholesome smiles,_ _When John-a-Nokes and John-a-Styles_ _Do grease the lawyer's satin._

_A reading-day_ _Frights French away,_ _The benchers dare speak Latin._

CHORUS. _A reading, &c._

3. RHYMEWELL.

_He that's full doth verse compose;_ _Hunger deals in sullen prose:_ _Take notice and discard her._ _The empty spit_ _Ne'er cherish'd wit;_ _Minerva loves the larder._

CHORUS. _The empty spit, &c._

4. CHRISTOPHER.

_First to breakfast, then to dine,_ _Is to conquer Bellarmine:_ _Distinctions then are budding._ _Old Sutcliff's wit_[201] _Did never hit,_ _But after his bag-pudding._

CHORUS. _Old Sutcliffs wit, &c._

AND. Most admirable! A good eating song!

CHRIS. Let's walk in and practise it; my bowels Yearn till I'm in charity with all.

AND. A christian resolution, good Sir Christopher!

[_Exeunt._