SCENE I.[1644

[_Enter_] MOSCA.

_Mos._ I fear I shall begin to grow in love With my dear self, and my most prosp’rous parts, They do so spring and burgeon; I can feel A whimsy i’ my blood: I know not how, Success hath made me wanton. I could skip 5 Out of my skin now, like a subtle snake, I am so limber. O! your parasite Is a most precious thing, dropt from above, Not bred ’mongst clods and clodpoles, here on earth. I muse, the mystery[1645] was not made a science, 10 It is so liberally profest! Almost All the wise world is little else, in nature, But parasites or sub-parasites. And yet I mean not those that have your bare town-art, To know who’s fit to feed them; have no house, 15 No family, no care, and therefore mould Tales for men’s ears, to bait that sense; or get Kitchen-invention, and some stale receipts To please the belly, and the groin; nor those, With their court dog-tricks, that can fawn and fleer, 20 Make their revenue out of leg[1646] and faces, Echo my lord, and lick away a moth: But your fine elegant rascal, that can rise And stoop, almost together, like an arrow; Shoot through the air as nimbly as a star; 25 Turn short as doth a swallow; and be here, And there, and here, and yonder, all at once; Present to any humour, all occasion; And change a visor swifter than a thought! 29 This is the creature had the art born with him; Toils not to learn it, but doth practise it Out of most excellent nature: and such sparks Are the true parasites, others but their zanies.