Part 6

_Sir Vau._ Leaue your fetches and your fegaries, you tough leather-Ierkins; leaue your quandaries, and trickes, and draw vpon |1740| me y’ are best: you conny-catch Widdow _Miniuer-caps_ for fiue pounds, and say tis for me to cry Mum, and make mee run vp and downe in dishonors, and discredites; is ’t not true, you winke-a-pipes rascall? is not true?

_Tuc._ Right, true, guilty, I remember’t now; for when I spake |1745| a good word to the Widdow for thee my young Sampson----

_Sir Vau._ For fiue pounds you cheating scab, for 5. pounds, not for me.

_Tuc._ For thee ô Cæsar, for thee I tooke vp fiue pounds in golde, that lay in her lap, & said Ide giue it thee as a token |1750| from her: I did it but to smell out how she stood affected to thee, to feele her; I, and I know what she said, I know how I carried away the golde.

_Sir Vau._ By Sesu, I ha not the mercy to fall vpon him now: M. Tucky, did widdow Miniuers part quietly from her golde, |1755| because you lyed, and said it was for me?

_Tuc._ Quietly, in peace, without grumbling; made no noise, I know how I tempted her in thy behalfe; my little Trangdo.

_Sir Vau._ Capten Tucky, I will pay back her 5. £. (vnles you be damn’d in lyes) & hold you, I pray you pocket vp this; by the |1760| crosse a this sword & dagger, Capten you shall take it.

_Tuc._ Dost sweare by daggers? nay then Ile put vp more at thy hands then this.

_Flash._ Is the fray done sir?

_Sir Vau._ Done Peter, put vp your smeeter.

|1765| _Tuc._ Come hether, my soure-fac’d Poet; fling away that beard-brush Bubo, casheere him and harke: Knight attend: So, that raw-head and bloudy-bones Sir Adam, has fee’d another brat (of those nine common wenches) to defend baldnes and to raile against haire: he’ll haue a fling at thee, my noble Cock-Sparrow.

|1770| _Sir Vau._ At mee? will hee fling the cudgels of his witte at mee?

_Tuc._ And at thy button-cap too; but come, Ile be your leader, you shall stand, heare all, & not be seene; cast off that blew coate, away with that flawne, and follow, come.

_Exit._

_Hor._ Bubo, we follow Captaine.

|1775| _Sir Va._ Peter, leaue comming behinde me, I pray any longer, for you and I must part Peter.

_Flash._ Sounds Sir, I hope you will not serue me so, to turne me away in this case.

_Sir Vau._ Turne you into a fooles coate; I meane I will go _solus_, |1780| or in solitaries alone; ounds y-are best giue better words, or Ile turne you away indeed; where is Capten Tucky? come Horace; get you home Peter.

_Flash._ Ile home to your cost, and I can get into the Wine-Seller.

_Exit._

|1785| _Hor._ Remember where to meete mee.

_Asin._ Yes Ile meete; Tucca should ha found I dare meete.

_Exit._

_Ho._ Dare defend baldnes, which our conquering Muse Has beaten downe so flat? Well, we will goe, |1790| And see what weapons theyr weake wittes doe bring; If sharpe, we’ll spred a large and nobler wing; Tucca, heere lyes thy Peace: warre roares agen; My Swoord shall neuer cutte thee, but my pen.

_Exit._

_Enter_ Sir Adam, Crispinus, Fannius, Blunt, Miniuer, Petula, |1795| Philocalia _and_ Dicace.

_Ladies._ Thankes good Sir Adam.

_Sir Ada._ Welcome red-cheekt Ladies, And welcome comely Widdow; Gentlemen, Now that our sorry banquet is put by, |1800| From stealing more sweet kisses from your lips Walke in my garden: Ladyes let your eyes Shed life into these flowers by their bright beames, Sit, Sit, heere’s a large bower, heere all may heare, Now good Crispinus let your praize begin |1805| There, where it left off Baldnes.

_Cris._ I shall winne No praise, by praising that, which to depraue, All tongues are readie, and which none would haue.

_Blu._ To prooue that best, by strong and armed reason, |1810| Whose part reason feares to take, cannot but prooue, Your wit’s fine temper, and from these win loue.

_Min._ I promise you has almost conuerted me, I pray bring forward your bald reasons M. Poet.

_Cri._ Mistris you giue my Reasons proper names, |1815| For Arguments (like Children) should be like, The subiect that begets them; I must striue To crowne _Bald heades_, therefore must baldlie thriue; But be it as it can: To what before, Went arm’d at table, this force bring I more, |1820| If a _Bare head_ (being like a dead-mans scull) Should beare vp no praise els but this, it sets Our end before our eyes; should I dispaire, From giuing _Baldnes_ higher place then haire?

_Mini._ Nay perdie, haire has the higher place.

|1825| _Cri._ The goodliest & most glorious strange-built wonder, Which that great Architect hath made, is heauen; For there he keepes his Court, It is his Kingdome, That’s his best Master-piece; yet tis the roofe, And Seeling of the world: that may be cal’d |1830| The head or crowne of Earth, and yet that’s balde, All creatures in it balde; the louely _Sunne_, Has a face sleeke as golde; the full-cheekt _Moone_, As bright and smooth as siluer: nothing there Weares dangling lockes, but sometime blazing Starres, |1835| Whose flaming curles, set realmes on fire with warres. Descend more low; looke through mans fiue-folde sence, Of all, the _Eye_, beares greatest eminence; And yet that’s balde, the haires that like a lace, Are sticht vnto the liddes, borrow those formes, |1840| Like Pent-houses to saue the eyes from stormes.

_Sir Adam._ Right, well said.

_Cris._ A head and face ore-growne with Shaggie drosse, O, tis an Orient pearle hid all in Mosse, But when the head’s all naked and vncrown’d, |1845| It is the worlds _Globe_, euen, smooth and round; _Baldnes_ is natures But, at which our life, Shootes her last Arrow: what man euer lead His age out with a staffe, but had a head Bare and vncouer’d? hee whose yeares doe rise, |1850| To their full height, yet not balde, is not wise. The _Head_ is Wisedomes house, _Haire_ but the thatch, _Haire_? It’s the basest stubble; in scorne of it, This Prouerbe sprung, _he has more haire then wit_: Marke you not in derision how we call, |1855| A head growne thicke with haire, _Bush-naturall_?

_Min._ By your leaue (Master Poet) but that Bush-naturall, is one a the trimmest, and most intanglingst beautie in a woman.

_Cris._ Right, but beleeue this (_pardon me most faire_) You would haue much more wit, had you lesse haire: |1860| I could more wearie you to tell the proofes, (As they passe by) which fight on _Baldnes_ side, Then were you taskt to number on a head, The haires: I know not how your thoughts are lead, On this strong Tower shall my opinion rest, |1865| _Heades thicke of haire are goode, but balde the best_.

_Whilst this Paradox is in speaking_, Tucca _Enters with_ Sir Vaughan _at one doore, and secretly placeth him: then Exit and brings in_ Horace _muffled, placing him:_ Tucca _sits among them._

_Tuc._ Th’art within a haire of it, my sweete _Wit whether wilt thou_? |1870| my delicate Poeticall Furie, th’ ast hit it to a haire.

Sir Vaughan _steps out_.

_Sir Vau._ By your fauour Master Tucky, his balde reasons are wide aboue two hayres, I besees you pardon mee Ladies, that I thrust in so malepartly among you, for I did but mych heere, |1875| and see how this cruell Poet did handle bald heades.

_Sir Ad._ He gaue them but their due Sir Vaughan; Widdow did he not?

_Mini._ By my faith he made more of a balde head, than euer I shall be able: he gaue them their due truely.

|1880| _Sir Vaugh._ Nay vds bloud, their due is to bee a the right haire as I am, and that was not in his fingers to giue, but in God a Mighties: Well, I will hyre that humorous and fantasticall Poet Master Horace, to breake your balde pate Sir Adam.

_Sir Ada._ Breake my balde pate?

|1885| _Tuc._ Dost heare my worshipfull block-head?

_Sir Vaug._ Patience Captaine Tucky, let me absolue him; I meane he shal pricke, pricke your head or sconce a little with his goose-quils, for he shal make another Thalimum, or crosse-stickes, or some Polinoddyes, with a fewe Nappy-grams in them, |1890| that shall lift vp haire, and set it an end, with his learned and harty commendations.

_Hor._ This is excellent, all will come out now.

_Dica._ That same Horace me thinkes has the most vngodly face, by my Fan; it lookes for all the world, like a rotten russet |1895| Apple, when tis bruiz’d: Its better then a spoonefull of Sinamon water next my heart, for me to heare him speake; hee soundes it so i’ th nose, and talkes and randes for all the world, like the poore fellow vnder Ludgate: oh fye vpon him.

_Min._ By my troth sweet Ladies, it’s Cake and pudding to me, |1900| to see his face make faces, when hee reades his Songs and Sonnets.

_Hor._ Ile face some of you for this, when you shall not budge.

_Tuc._ Its the stinckingst dung-farmer--foh vpon him.

_Sir Vau._ Foh? oundes you make him vrse than olde herring: foh? by Sesu I thinke he’s as tidy, and as tall a Poet as euer |1905| drew out a long verse.

_Tuc._ The best verse that euer I knew him hacke out, was his white necke-verse: noble Ap Rees thou wouldst scorne to laye thy lippes to his commendations, and thou smeldst him out as I doe, hee calles thee the burning Knight of the Salamander.

|1910| _Sir Vaugh._ Right, Peter is my Salamander; what of him? but Peter is neuer burnt: howe now? so, goe too now.

_Tucca._ And sayes because thou Clipst the Kinges English.

_Sir Vaughan._ Oundes mee? that’s treason: clip? horrible treasons, Sesu holde my handes; clip? he baites mouse-trappes for |1915| my life.

_Tucca._ Right little _Twinckler_, right: hee sayes because thou speak’st no better, thou canst not keepe a good tongue in thy head.

_Sir Vaug._ By God tis the best tongue, I can buy for loue or |1920| money.

_Tuc._ He shootes at thee too Adam Bell, and his arrowes stickes heere; he calles thee bald-pate.

_Sir Vaugh._ Oundes make him prooue these intollerabilities.

_Tuc._ And askes who shall carry the vineger-bottle? & then he |1925| rimes too’t, and sayes Prickshaft: nay Miniuer hee cromples thy Cap too; and----

_Cri._ Come Tucca, come, no more; the man’s wel knowne, thou needst not paint him, whom does he not wrong?

_Tuc._ Mary himselfe, the vglie Pope Boniface, pardons himselfe, |1930| and therefore my iudgement is, that presently he bee had from hence to his place of execution, and there bee Stab’d, Stab’d, Stab’d.

_He stabs at him._

_Hor._ Oh gentlemen, I am slaine, oh slaue art hyr’d to murder me, to murder me, to murder me?

|1935| _Ladies._ Oh God!

_Sir Vaugh._ Ounds Capten, you haue put all Poetrie to the dint of sword, blow winde about him: Ladies for our Lordes sake you that haue smocks, teare off peeces, to shoote through his oundes: Is he dead and buried? is he? pull his nose, pinch, rub, |1940| rub, rub, rub.

_Tu._ If he be not dead, looke heere; I ha the Stab and pippin for him: if I had kil’d him, I could ha pleas’d the great foole with an Apple.

_Cris._ How now? be well good Horace, heer’s no wound; |1945| Y’are slaine by your owne feares; how dost thou man? Come, put thy heart into his place againe; Thy out-side’s neither peir’st, nor In-side slaine.

_Sir Vau._ I am glad M. Horace, to see you walking.

_Ho._ Gentlemen, I am blacke and blewe the breadth of a groate.

|1950| _Tuc._ Breadth of a groate? there’s a teston, hide thy infirmities, my scuruy Lazarus; doe, hide it, least it prooue a scab in time: hang thee desperation, hang thee, thou knowst I cannot be sharpe set against thee: looke, feele (my light-vptailes all) feele my weapon.

|1955| _Mi._ O most pittifull as blunt as my great thumbe.

_Sir Vau._ By Sesu, as blunt as a Welsh bag-pudding.

_Tuc._ As blunt as the top of Poules; tis not like thy Aloe, Cicatrine tongue, bitter: no, tis no stabber, but like thy goodly and glorious nose, blunt, blunt, blunt: dost roare bulchin? dost |1960| roare? th’ ast a good rounciuall voice to cry Lanthorne & Candlelight.

_Sir Va._ Two vrds Horace about your eares: how chance it passes, that you bid God boygh to an honest trade of building Symneys, and laying downe Brickes, for a worse handicraftnes, |1965| to make nothing but railes; your Muse leanes vpon nothing but filthy rotten railes, such as stand on Poules head, how chance?

_Hor._ Sir Vaughan.

_Sir Va._ You lye sir varlet sir villaine, I am sir Salamanders, ounds, is my man Master Peter Salamanders face as vrse as |1970| mine? Sentlemen, all and Ladies, and you say once or twice Amen, I will lap this little Silde, this Booby in his blankets agen.

_Omnes._ Agree’d, agree’d.

_Tuc._ A blanket, these crackt Venice glasses shall fill him out, they shall tosse him, holde fast wag-tailes: so, come, in, take |1975| this bandy with the racket of patience, why when? dost stampe mad Tamberlaine, dost stampe? thou thinkst th’ast Morter vnder thy feete, dost?

_Ladies._ Come, a bandy ho.

_Hor._ O holde most sacred beauties.

|1980| _Sir Vau._ Hold, silence, the puppet-teacher speakes.

_Ho._ Sir Vaughan, noble Capten, Gentlemen, Crispinus, deare Demetrius ô redeeme me, Out of this infamous---- by God by Iesu----

_Cri._ Nay, sweare not so good Horace, now these Ladies, |1985| Are made your executioners: prepare, To suffer like a gallant, not a coward; Ile trie t’ vnloose, their hands, impossible. Nay, womens vengeance are implacable.

_Hor._ Why, would you make me thus the ball of scorne?

|1990| _Tuc._ Ile tell thee why, because th’ ast entred Actions of assault and battery, against a companie of honourable and worshipfull Fathers of the law: you wrangling rascall, law is one of the pillers ath land, and if thou beest bound too’t (as I hope thou shalt bee) thou’t prooue a skip-Jacke, thou’t be whipt. Ile tell |1995| thee why, because thy sputtering chappes yelpe, that Arrogance, and Impudence, and Ignoraunce, are the essentiall parts of a Courtier.

_Sir Vau._ You remember Horace, they will puncke, and pincke, and pumpe you, and they catch you by the coxcombe: on I |2000| pray, one lash, a little more.

_Tuc._ Ile tell thee why, because thou cryest ptrooh at worshipfull Cittizens, and cal’st them Flat-caps, Cuckolds, and banckrupts, and modest and vertuous wiues punckes & cockatrices. Ile tell thee why, because th’ast arraigned two Poets against all |2005| lawe and conscience; and not content with that, hast turn’d them amongst a company of horrible blacke Fryers.

_Sir Vau._ The same hand still, it is your owne another day, M. Horace, admonitions is good meate.

_Tuc._ Thou art the true arraign’d Poet, and shouldst haue been |2010| hang’d, but for one of these part-takers, these charitable Copperlac’d Christians, that fetcht thee out of Purgatory, (Players I meane) Theaterians pouch-mouth, Stage-walkers; for this Poet, for this, thou must lye with these foure wenches, in that blancket, for this----

|2015| _Hor._ What could I doe, out of a iust reuenge, But bring them to the Stage? they enuy me because I holde more worthy company.

_Deme._ Good Horace, no; my cheekes doe blush for thine, As often as thou speakst so, where one true |2020| And nobly-vertuous spirit, for thy best part Loues thee, I wish one ten, euen from my heart. I make account I put vp as deepe share In any good mans loue, which thy worth earnes, As thou thy selfe; we enuy not to see, |2025| Thy friends with Bayes to crowne thy Poesie. No, heere the gall lyes, we that know what stuffe Thy verie heart is made of; know the stalke On which thy learning growes, and can giue life To thy (once dying) basenes; yet must we |2030| Dance Antickes on your Paper.

_Hor._ Fannius.

_Cri._ This makes vs angry, but not enuious, No, were thy warpt soule, put in a new molde, Ide weare thee as a Iewell set in golde.

|2035| _Sir Vau._ And Iewels Master Horace, must be hang’d you know.

_Tuc._ Good Pagans, well said, they haue sowed vp that broken seame-rent lye of thine, that Demetrius is out at Elbowes, and Crispinus is falne out with Sattin heere, they haue; but bloate-herring dost heare?

|2040| _Hor._ Yes honour’d Captaine, I haue eares at will.

_Tuc._ Ist not better be out at Elbowes, then to bee a bond-slaue, and to goe all in Parchment as thou dost?

_Horace._ Parchment Captaine? tis Perpetuana I assure you.

_Tuc._ My Perpetuall pantaloone true, but tis waxt ouer; th’art |2045| made out of Wax; thou must answere for this one day; thy Muse is a hagler, and weares cloathes vpon best-be-trust: th’art great in some bodies books for this, thou knowst where; thou wouldst bee out at Elbowes, and out at heeles too, but that thou layest about thee with a Bill for this, a Bill--

|2050| _Ho._ I confesse Capten, I followed this suite hard.

_Tuc._ I know thou didst, and therefore whilst we haue Hiren heere, speake my little dish-washers, a verdit Pisse-kitchins.

_Omnes._ Blancket.

_Sir Vau._ Holde I pray, holde, by Sesu I haue put vpon my |2055| heade, a fine deuice, to make you laugh, tis not your fooles Cap Master Horace, which you couer’d your Poetasters in, but a fine tricke, ha, ha, is iumbling in my braine.

_Tuc._ Ile beate out thy braines, my whorson hansome dwarfe, but ile haue it out of thee.

|2060| _Omnes._ What is it good Sir Vaughan?

_Sir Vau._ To conclude, tis after this manners, because Ma. Horace is ambition, and does conspire to bee more hye and tall, as God a mightie made him, wee’ll carry his terrible person to Court, and there before his Masestie Dub, or what you call it, |2065| dip his Muse in some licour, and christen him, or dye him, into collours of a Poet.

_Omnes._ Excellent.

_Tuc._ Super Super-excellent Reuellers goe, proceede you Masters of Arte in kissing these wenches, and in daunces, bring you |2070| the quiuering Bride to Court, in a Maske, come Crumboll, thou shalt Mum with vs; come, dogge mee skneakes-bill.

_Hor._ O thou my Muse!

_Sir Vau._ Call vpon God a mighty, and no Muses, your Muse I warrant is otherwise occupied, there is no dealing with your |2075| Muse now, therefore I pray marse, marse, marse, oundes your Moose?

_Exeunt._

_Cri._ We shal haue sport to see them; come bright beauties, The Sunne stoops low, and whispers in our eares, To hasten on our Maske, let’s crowne this night, |2080| With choise composed wreathes of sweet delight.

_ Exeunt._

_Enter_ Terrill _and_ Cælestine _sadly_, Sir Quintilian _stirring and mingling a cup of wine_.

_Ter._ O Night, that Dyes the Firmament in blacke, |2085| And like a cloth of cloudes doth stretch thy limbes; Vpon the windy Tenters of the Ayre: O thou that hang’st vpon the backe of Day, Like a long mourning gowne: thou that art made Without an eye, because thou shouldst not see |2090| A Louers Reuels: nor participate The Bride-groomes heauen; ô heauen, to me a hell: I haue a hell in heauen, a blessed cursse; All other Brides-groomes long for Night, and taxe The Day of lazie slouth; call Time a Cripple, |2095| And say the houres limpe after him: but I Wish Night for euer banisht from the skie, Or that the Day would neuer sleepe: or Time, Were in a swound; and all his little Houres, Could neuer lift him vp with their poore powers.

|2100| _Enter_ Cælestine.

But backward runnes the course of my delight; The day hath turn’d his backe, and it is night; This night will make vs odde; day made vs eeuen, All else are damb’d in hel, but I in heauen.

|2105| _Cæ._ Let loose thy oath, so shall we still be eeuen.

_Ter._ Then am I damb’d in hell, and not in heauen.

_Cæl._ Must I then goe? tis easie to say no, Must is the King himselfe, and I must goe; Shall I then goe? that word is thine; I shall, |2110| Is thy commaund: I goe because I shall; Will I then goe? I aske my selfe; ô ill, King, saies I must; you, I shall; I, I will.

_Ter._ Had I not sworne. _Cæl._ Why didst thou sweare?

_Ter._ The King |2115| Sat heauvy on my resolution, Till (out of breath) it panted out an oath.

_Cæl._ An oath? why, what’s an oath? tis but the smoake, Of flame & bloud; the blister of the spirit, Which rizeth from the Steame of rage, the bubble |2120| That shootes vp to the tongue, and scaldes the voice, (For oathes are burning words) thou swor’st but one, Tis frozen long agoe: if one be numbred, What Countrimen are they? where doe they dwell, That speake naught else but oathes?

|2125| _Ter._ They’re men of hell. An oath? why tis the trafficke of the soule, Tis law within a man; the seale of faith, The bond of euery conscience; vnto whom, We set our thoughts like hands: yea, such a one |2130| I swore, and to the King: A King containes A thousand thousand; when I swore to him, I swore to them; the very haires that guard His head, will rise vp like sharpe witnesses Against my faith and loyalty: his eye |2135| Would straight condemne me: argue oathes no more, My oath is high, for to the King I swore.

_Enter_ Sir Quintilian _with the cup._

_Cæ._ Must I betray my Chastity? So long Cleane from the treason of rebelling lust; |2140| O husband! O my Father! if poore I, Must not liue chast, then let me chastly dye.

_S. qui._ I, heer’s a charme shall keep thee chaste, come, come, Olde Time hath left vs but an houre to play Our parts; begin the Sceane, who shall speake first? |2145| Oh, I, I play the King, and Kings speake first; Daughter stand thou heere, thou Sonne Terrill there, O thou standst well, thou lean’st against a poast, (For thou’t be posted off I warrant thee:) The King will hang a horne about thy necke, |2150| And make a poast of thee; you stand well both, We neede no Prologue, the King entring first, He’s a most gracious Prologue: mary then For the Catastrophe, or Epilogue, Ther’s one in cloth of Siluer, which no doubt, |2155| Will please the hearers well, when he steps out; His mouth is fil’d with words: see where he stands; He’ll make them clap their eyes besides their hands. But to my part; suppose who enters now, A King, whose eyes are set in Siluer; one |2160| That blusheth golde, speakes Musicke, dancing walkes, Now gathers neerer takes thee by the hand, When straight thou thinkst, the very Orbe of heauen, Mooues round about thy fingers, then he speakes, Thus--thus--I know not how.

|2165| _Cæl._ Nor I to answer him.

_Sir Quint._ No girle? knowst thou not how to answer him? Why then the field is lost, and he rides home, Like a great conquerour; not answer him? Out of thy part already? foylde the Sceane? |2170| Disranckt the lynes? disarm’d the action?

_Ter._ Yes yes, true chastity is tongu’d so weake, Tis ouer-come ere it know how to speake.

_Sir qui._ Come, come, thou happy close of euery wrong, Tis thou that canst dissolue the hardest doubt; |2175| Tis time for thee to speake, we are all out. Daughter, and you the man whom I call Sonne, I must confesse I made a deede of gift; To heauen and you, and gaue my childe to both: When on my blessing I did charme her soule, |2180| In the white circle of true Chastity, Still to run true, till death: now Sir if not, She forfeyts my rich blessing, and is Fin’d With an eternall cursse; then I tell you, She shall dye now, now whilst her soule is true.

|2185| _Ter._ Dye?

_Cæl._ I, I am deaths eccho.

_Sir quin._ O my Sonne, I am her Father; euery teare I shed, Is threescore ten yeere olde; I weepe and smile |2190| Two kinde of teares: I weepe that she must dye, I smile that she must dye a Virgin: thus We ioyfull men mocke teares, and teares mocke vs.

_Ter._ What speakes that cup?

_Sir quin._ White wine and poison.