Chapter 54

Mr_. Tickletext _a trimming, his Hair under a Cap, a Cloth before him:_ Petro _snaps his fingers, takes away the Bason, and goes to wiping his face_.

Tickletext _and_ Petro.

_Pet_. Ah che Bella! Bella! I swear by these sparkling Eyes and these soft plump dimpled Cheeks, there’s not a Signiora in all _Rome_, cou’d she behold ‘em, were able to stand their Temptations; and for _La Silvianetta_, my life on’t, she’s your own.

_Tick_. Teze, teze, speak softly; but, honest _Barberacho_, do I, do I indeed look plump, and young, and fresh and--hah!

_Pet_. Ay, Sir, as the rosy Morn, young as old Time in his Infancy, and plump as the pale-fac’d Moon.

_Tick_. He--Why, this Travelling must needs improve a Man--Why, how admirably well-spoken your very Barbers are here--[_Aside_.]--But, _Barberacho_, did the young Gentlewoman say she lik’d me? did she, Rogue? did she?

_Pet_. A doated on you Signior, doated on you.

_Tick_. Why, and that’s strange now, in the Autumn of my Age too, when Nature began to be impertinent, as a Man may say, that a young Lady shou’d fall in love with me--[_Aside_.] Why, _Barberacho_, I do not conceive any great matter of Sin only in visiting a Lady that loves a man, hah.

_Pet_. Sin, Sir! ‘tis a frequent thing now-a-days in Persons of your Complexion.

_Tick_. Especially here at _Rome_ too, where ‘tis no scandal.

_Pet_. Ah, Signior, where the Ladies are privileg’d and Fornication licensed.

_Tick_. Right! and when ‘tis licens’d, ‘tis lawful; and when ‘tis lawful, it can be no Sin: besides, _Barberacho_, I may chance to turn her, who knows?

_Pet_. Turn her, Signior, alas, any way, which way you please.

_Tick_. He, he, he! There thou wert knavish, I doubt--but I mean convert her--nothing else I profess, _Barberacho_.

_Pet_. True, Signior, true, she’s a Lady of an easy nature, and an indifferent Argument well handled will do’t--ha--here’s your head of Hair--here’s your natural [_combing out his Hair_.] Frize! And such an Air it gives the Face!--So, Signior--Now you have the utmost my Art can do. [_Takes away the Cloth, and bows_.

_Tick_. Well, Signior,--and where’s your Looking-glass?

_Pet_. My Looking-glass!

_Tick_. Yes, Signior, your Looking-glass! an _English_ Barber wou’d as soon have forgotten to have snapt his fingers, made his leg, or taken his Money, as have neglected his Looking-glass.

_Pet_. Ay, Signior, in your Country the Laity have so little Honesty, they are not to be trusted with the taking off your Beard unless you see’t done:--but here’s a Glass, Sir. [_Gives him the Glass_.

[Tick. _sets himself and smirks in the Glass_, Pet. _standing behind him, making horns and grimaces, which_ Tick. _sees in the Glass, gravely rises, turns towards_ Petro.

_Tick_. Why, how now, _Barberacho_, what monstrous Faces are you making there?

_Pet_. All, my Belly, my Belly, Signior: ah, this Wind-Cholick! this Hypocondriack does so torment me! ah--

_Tick_. Alas, poor Knave; _certo_, I thought thou hadst been somewhat uncivil with me, I profess I did.

_Pet_. Who, I, Sir, uncivil?--I abuse my Patrone!--I that have almost made my self a Pimp to serve you?

_Tick_. Teze, teze, honest _Barberacho!_ no, no, no, all’s well, all’s well:--but hark ye--you will be discreet and secret in this business now, and above all things conceal the knowledge of this Gentlewoman from Sir _Signal_ and Mr. _Galliard_.

_Pet_. The Rack, Signior, the Rack shall not extort it.

_Tick_. Hold thy Hand--there’s somewhat for thee, [_Gives him Money_.] but shall I, Rogue--shall I see her to night?--

_Pet_. To night, Sir, meet me in the Piazza _D’Hispagnia_, about ten a Clock,--I’ll meet you there,--but ‘tis fit, Signior--that I should provide a Collation,--’tis the custom here, Sir.--

_Tick_. Well, well, what will it come to?--here’s an Angel.--

_Pet_. Why, Sir, ‘twill come to--about--for you wou’d do’t handsomely-- some twenty Crowns.--

_Tick_. How, man, twenty Crowns!

_Pet_. Ay, Signior, thereabouts.

_Tick_. Twenty Crowns!--Why, ‘tis a Sum, a Portion, a Revenue.

_Pet_. Alas, Signior, ‘tis nothing with her,--she’ll look it out in an hour,--ah, such an Eye, so sparkling, with an amorous Twire--Then, Sir-- she’ll kiss it out in a moment,--such a Lip, so red, so round, so plump, so soft, and so--

_Tick_. Why, has she, has she, Sirrah--hah--here, here, prithee take money, here, and make no words on’t--go, go your way, go--But to entertain Sir _Signal_ with other matter, pray send his Masters to him; if thou canst help him to Masters, and me to Mistresses, thou shalt be the good Genius of us both: but see where he comes--

_Enter Sir_ Signal.

Sir _Sig_. Hah! _Signior Illustrissimo Barberacho_, let me hug thee, my little _Miphistophiloucho_--de ye see here, how fine your Brokering Jew has made me, Signior _Rabbi Manaseth--Ben--Nebiton_, and so forth; hah-- view me round-- [_Turns round_.

_Tick_. I profess ‘tis as fit as if it had been made for you.

Sir _Sig_. Made for me--Why, Sir, he swore to me by the old Law, that ’.was never worn but once, and that but by one High-German Prince--I have forgot his name--for the Devil can never remember a fart these dam’d _Hogan-Mogan_ Titles.

_Tick_. No matter, Sir.

Sir _Sig_. Ay, but I shou’d be loth to be in any man’s Clothes, were he never so high a German Prince--except I knew his name though.

_Tick_. Sir, I hold his name unnecessary to be remembred, so long as ’.was a princely Penniworth.--_Barberacho_, get you gone, and send the Masters. [_Ex_. Petro.

Sir _Sig_. Why, how now, Governour? how now, Signior _Tickletext_! prithee how camest thou so transmogrified, ha? why, thou look’st like any new-fledg’d _Cupid_.

_Tick_. Do I? away, you flatter; do I?

Sir _Sig_. As I hope to breathe, your Face shines through your pouder’d Hairs, like you know what on a Barn-door in a frosty morning.

_Tick_. What a filthy comparison there for a man of my Coat?

Sir _Sig_. What, angry--_Corpo di me_, I meant no harm,--Come, shall’s to a _Bonaroba_, where thou shalt part with thy Pusilage, and that of thy Beard together?

_Tick_. How mean you, Sir, a Curtezan, and a Romish Curtezan?

Sir _Sig_. Now my Tutor’s up, ha, ha, ha--and ever is when one names a Whore; be pacify’d, Man, be pacify’d, I know thou hat’st ‘em worse than Beads or Holy-water.

_Tick_. Away, you are such another Knight--but leave this naughty discourse, and prepare for your Fencing and Civility-Masters, who are coming.

Sir _Sig_. Ay, when, Governour, when? Oh, how I long for my Civility-Master, that I may learn to out-complement all the dull Knights and Squires in _Kent_, with a _Servitore Hulichimo--No Signiora Bellissima, base le Mane de vos Signiora scusa mia Illustrissimo, caspeto de Bacco_, and so I’ll run on, hah, Governour, hah! won’t this be pure?

_Tick_. Notably ingenious, I profess.

Sir _Sig_. Well, I’ll send my _Staffiera_ for him _incontinente_.--he, _Jack_--a--_Cazo_, what a damned _English_ name is _Jack_? let me see--I will call him _Giovanni_--which is as much as to say _John_!--he _Giovanni_.

_Enter_ Jack.

_Tick_. Sir, by your favour, his _English_ Protestant Name is _John Pepper_, and I’ll call him by ne’er a Popish Name in Christendom.

Sir _Sig_. I’ll call my own man, Sir, by what name I please, Sir; and let me tell you, Reverend Mr. _Tickletext_, I scorn to be served by any man whose name has not an _Acho_ or an _Oucho_, or some _Italiano_ at the end on’t--therefore _Giovanni Peperacho_ is the name by which you shall be distinguish’d and dignify’d hereafter.

_Tick_. Sir _Signal_, Sir _Signal_, let me tell you, that to call a man out of his name is unwarrantable, for _Peter_ is call’d _Peter_, and _John John_; and I’ll not see the poor Fellow wrong’d of his Name for ne’er a _Giovanni_ in _Rome_.

Sir _Sig_. Sir, I tell you that one _Italian_ Name is worth any two _English_ Names in Europe, and I’ll be judg’d by my Civility-Master.

_Tick_. Who shall end the dispute if he be of my opinion?

Sir _Sig_. _Multo voluntiero_, which is as much as to say, with all my heart.

_Jack_. But, Sir, my Grandmother wou’d never own me, if I should change the cursen Name she gave me with her own hands, an’t please your Worship.

Sir _Sig_. He _Bestia_! I’ll have no more of your Worship, Sirrah, that old _English_ Sir Reverence, let me have you call me _Signior Illustrissimo_ or Patrona Mea_--or--

_Tick_. Ay, that I like well enough now:--but hold, sure this is one of your Masters.

_Enter_ Petro _drest like a French Fencing-Master_.

_Pet_. Signior _Barberacho_ has sent me to teach you de Art of Fencing.

Sir _Sig_. _Illustrissimo Signior Monsieur_, I am the Person who am to learn.

_Tick_. Stay, Sir, stay--let me ask him some few questions first: for, Sir, I have play’d at Back-Sword, and cou’d have handled ye a weapon as well as any Man of my time in the University.

Sir _Sig_. Say you so, Mr. _Tickletext?_ and faith, you shall have a bout with him.

[Tick. _gravely goes to_ Petro.

_Tick_. Hum--hum--Mr. _Monsieur_--pray what are the Guards that you like best?

_Pet_. _Monsieur, eder de Quart or de Terse_, dey be both _French_ and _Italian_: den for your Parades, Degagements, your Advancements, your Eloynements and Retierments, dey be de same.

_Tick_. Cart and Horse, what new-found inventions and words have we here?--Sir, I wou’d know, whether you like St. _George’s_ Guard or not.

_Pet_. Alons--_Monsieur, Mettez vous en Guard!_ take de Flurette.

Sir _Sig_. Nay, faith and troth, Governor, thou shalt have a Rubbers with him.

[Tick, _smiling refuses_.

_Tick_. Nay, _certo_, Sir _Signal_,--and yet you shall prevail;--well, Sir, come your ways. [_Takes the Flurette_.

_Pet_. Set your right foot forward, turn up your hand so--dat be _de Quart_--now turn it dus--and dat be _de Terse_.

_Tick_. Hocus Pocus, Hicksius Doxius--here be de Cart, and here be de Horse--why, what’s all this for; hah, Sir--and where’s your Guard all this while?

Sir _Sig_. Ay, Sir, where’s your Guard, Sir, as my Governour says, Sir, hah?

_Tick_. Come, come, Sir, I must instruct you, I see; Come your ways, Sir.--

_Pet_. _Attende, attende une peu_--trust de right hand and de right leg forward together.--

_Tick_. I marry, Sir, that’s a good one indeed: What shall become of my Head then, Sir? what Guard have I left for that, good Mr. _Monsieur_, hah?

_Pet_. Ah, Morbleu, is not dis for every ting?

_Tick_. No, marry, is not it, Sir; St. _George’s_ Guard is best for the Head whilst you live--as thus, Sir.

_Pet_. Dat, Sir, ha, ha--dat be de Guard for de Back-Sword.

_Tick_. Back-sword, Sir, yes, Back-sword, what shou’d it be else?

_Pet_. And dis be de Single-Rapier.

_Tick_. Single-Rapier with a Vengeance, there’s a weapon for a Gentleman indeed; is all this stir about Single-Rapier?

_Pet_. Single-Rapier! What wou’d you have for de Gentlemen, de Cudgel for de Gentlemen?

_Tick_. No, Sir, but I wou’d have it for de Rascally _Frenchman_, who comes to abuse Persons of Quality with paltry Single-Rapier.-- Single-Rapier! Come, Sir, come--put your self in your Cart and your Horse as you call it, and I’ll shew you the difference.

[_Undresses himself till he appears in a ridiculous Posture_.

_Pet_. Ah, _Monsieur_, me sall run you two three times through de Body, and den you break a me head, what care I for dat?--Pox on his ignorance. [_Aside_.

_Tick_. Oh, ho, Sir, do your worst, Sir, do your worst, Sir.

[_They put themselves into several Guards, and_ Tick. _beats_ Pet. _about the Stage.--Enter_ Gall. Fill. _and_ Jul.

_Pet_. Ah, _Monsieur, Monsieur_, will you kill a me?

_Tick_. Ah, _Monsieur_, where be your Carts now, and your Horse, Mr. _Monsieur_, hah?--and your Single-Rapier, Mr. _Monsieur_, hah?--

_Gal_. Why, how now, Mr. _Tickletext_, what mortal Wars are these? _Ajax_ and _Ulysses_ contending for _Achilles_ his Armour?

_Pet_. If I be not reveng’d on him, hang me. [_Aside_

Sir _Sig_. Ay, why, who the Devil wou’d have taken my Governor for so tall a man of hands? but _Corpo de me_, Mr. _Galliard_, I have not seen his Fellow.

_Tick_. Ah, Sir, time was, I wou’d have play’d ye a Match at Cudgels with e’er a Sophister in the College, but verily I have forgotten it; but here’s an Impudent _Frenchman_ that wou’d have past Single-Rapier upon us.

_Gal_. How, nay a my word, then he deserv’d to be chastis’d for’t--but now all’s at Peace again; pray know my Kinsman, Sir _Harry Fillamour_.

Sir _Sig_. _Yo baco les manos_, Signior _Illustrissimo Cavaliero_,--and yours, Signiors, who are _Multo bien Venito_.

_Tick_. Oh Lord, Sir, you take me, Sir, in such a posture, Sir, as I protest I have not been in this many years.

[_Dressing himself whilst he talks_.

_Fil_. Exercise is good for health, Sir.

_Gal_. Sir _Signal_, you are grown a perfect _Italian_: Well, Mr. _Tickletext_, you will carry him home a most accomplish’t Gentleman I see.

_Tick_. Hum, verily, Sir, though I say it, for a Man that never travell’d before, I think I have done reasonably well--I’ll tell you, Sir--it was by my directions and advice that he brought over with him,--two _English_ Knives, a thousand of _English_ Pins, four pair of _Jersey_ Stockings, and as many pair of Buckskin Gloves.

Sir _Sig_. Ay, Sir, for good Gloves you know are very scarce Commodities in this Country.

_Jul_. Here, Sir, at _Rome_, as you say, above all other places.

_Tick_. _Certo_, mere hedging Gloves, Sir, and the clouterlest Seams.

_Fil_. Very right, Sir,--and now he talks of _Rome_,--Pray, Sir, give me your opinion of the Place--Are there not noble Buildings here, rare Statues, and admirable Fountains?

_Tick_. Your Buildings are pretty Buildings, but not comparable to our University Buildings; your Fountains, I confess, are, pretty Springs,-- and your Statues reasonably well carv’d--but, Sir, they are so ancient they are of no value: then your Churches are the worst that ever I saw-- that ever I saw.

_Gal_. How, Sir, the Churches, why I thought _Rome_ had been famous throughout all _Europe_ for fine Churches.

_Fil_. What think you of St. _Peter’s_ Church, Sir? Is it not a glorious Structure?

_Tick_. St. _Peter’s_ Church, Sir, you may as well call it St. _Peter’s_ Hall, Sir; it has neither Pew, Pulpit, Desk, Steeple, nor Ring of Bells; and call you this a Church, Sir? No, Sir, I’ll say that for little _England_, and a fig for’t, for Churches, easy Pulpits, [Sir _Sig. speaks_, And sleeping Pews,] they are as well ordered as any Churches in Christendom: and finer Rings of Bells, Sir, I am sure were never heard.

_Jul_. Oh, Sir, there’s much in what you say.

_Fil_. But then, Sir, your rich Altars, and excellent Pictures of the greatest Masters of the World, your delicate Musick and Voices, make some amends for the other wants.

_Tick_. How, Sir! tell me of your rich Altars, your Guegaws and Trinkets, and Popish Fopperies, with a deal of Sing-song--when I say, give me, Sir, five hundred close Changes rung by a set of good Ringers, and I’ll not exchange ‘em for all the Anthems in _Europe_: and for the Pictures, Sir, they are Superstition, idolatrous, and flat Popery.

_Fil_. I’ll convince you of that Error, that persuades you harmless Pictures are idolatrous.

_Tick_. How, Sir, how, Sir, convince me! talk to me of being convinc’d, and that in favour of Popery! No, Sir, by your favour I shall not be convinc’d: convinc’d, quoth a!--no, Sir, fare you well, an you be for convincing: come away, Sir _Signal_, fare you well, Sir, fare you well:-- convinc’d! [_Goes out_.

Sir _Sig_. Ha, ha, ha, so now is my Governour gone in a Fustian-fume: well, he is ever thus when one talks of Whoring and Religion: but come, Sir, walk in, and I’ll undertake, my Tutor shall beg your Pardon, and renounce his _English_ ill-bred Opinion; nay, his _English_ Churches too--all but his own Vicaridge.

_Fil_. I have better diversion, Sir, I thank you--come, _Julio_, are you for a Walk in the Garden of _Medices Villa_, ‘tis hard by?--

_Jul_. I’ll wait on you-- [_Ex_. Fil. _and_ Julio.

Sir _Sig_. How in the Garden of _Medices Villa_?--but, harkye, _Galliard_, will the Ladies be there, the Curtezans, the _Bona Roba’s_, the _Inamorata’s_, and the _Bell Ingrato’s_, hah?

_Gal_. Oh, doubtless, Sir. [_Exit_. Gall.

Sir _Sig_. I’ll e’en bring my Governour thither to beg his Pardon, on purpose to get an opportunity to see the fine Women; it may be I may get a sight of my new Mistress, _Donna Silvianetta_, whom _Petro_ is to bring me acquainted with.

[_Exeunt_.