The Complete Works of Ben Jonson

The Complete Works of Ben Jonson

Ben Jonson

Shrine of Knowledge

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ISBN 10: 599893249

ISBN 13: 9780599893245

This collection includes the following titles:

Sejanus: His Fall

Bartholomew Fair

Discoveries Made Upon Men and Matter and Some Poems

Volpone; Or, The Fox

Every Man In His Humor

The Poetaster Or, His Arraignment

Epicoene or, The Silent Woman

The Case is Altered

The Alchemist

Cynthia's Revels

CYNTHIA'S REVELS:

OR, THE FOUNTAIN OF SELF-LOVE

TO THE SPECIAL FOUNTAIN OF MANNERS THE COURT

THOU art a bountiful and brave spring, and waterest all the noble plants of this island. In thee the whole kingdom dresseth itself, and is ambitious to use thee as her glass. Beware then thou render men's figures truly, and teach them no less to hate their deformities, than to love their forms: for, to grace, there should come reverence; and no man can call that lovely, which is not also venerable. It is not powdering, perfuming, and every day smelling of the tailor, that converteth to a beautiful object: but a mind shining through any suit, which needs no false light, either of riches or honours, to help it. Such shalt thou find some here, even in the reign of Cynthia,—a Crites and an Arete. Now, under thy Phoebus, it will be thy province to make more; except thou desirest to have thy source mix with the spring of self-love, and so wilt draw upon thee as welcome a discovery of thy days, as was then made of her nights.

Thy servant, but not slave,

BEN JONSON.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

    CYNTHIA.

    ECHO.

    MERCURY.

    ARETE.

    HESPERUS.

    PHANTASTE.

    CRITES.

    ARGURION.

    AMORPHUS.

    PHILAUTIA.

    ASOTUS.

    MORIA.

    HEDON.

    COS.

    ANAIDES.

    GELAIA.

    MORPHIDES.

    PROSAITES.

    MORUS.

    CUPID.

    MUTES.—PHRONESIS, THAUMA, TIME

SCENE,—GARGAPHIE

  INDUCTION.

  THE STAGE.

  AFTER THE SECOND SOUNDING.

  ENTER THREE OF THE CHILDREN, STRUGGLING.

  1 CHILD.  Pray you away; why, fellows!  Gods so, what do you mean?

  2 CHILD.  Marry, that you shall not speak the prologue sir.

  3 CHILD.  Why, do you hope to speak it?

  2 CHILD.  Ay, and I think I have most right to it: I am sure I

  studied it first.

  3 CHILD.  That's all one, if the author think I can speak it

  better.

  1 CHILD.  I plead possession of the cloak: gentles, your suffrages,

  I pray you.

  [WITHIN.]  Why children! are you not ashamed? come in there.

  3 CHILD.  Slid, I'll play nothing in the play: unless I speak it.

  1 CHILD.  Why, will you stand to most voices of the gentlemen? let

  that decide it.

  3 CHILD.  O, no, sir gallant; you presume to have the start of us

  there, and that makes you offer so prodigally.

  1 CHILD.  No, would I were whipped if I had any such thought; try

  it by lots either.

  2 CHILD.  Faith, I dare tempt my fortune in a greater venture than

  this.

  3 CHILD.  Well said, resolute Jack! I am content too; so we draw

  first. Make the cuts.

  1 CHILD.  But will you not snatch my cloak while I am stooping?

  3 CHILD.  No, we scorn treachery.

  2 CHILD.  Which cut shall speak it?

  3 CHILD.  The shortest.

  1 CHILD.  Agreed: draw.  [THEY DRAW CUTS.]  The shortest is come

  to the shortest.  Fortune was not altogether blind in this.  Now,

  sir, I hope I shall go forward without your envy.

  2 CHILD.  A spite of all mischievous luck!  I was once plucking at

  the other.

  3 CHILD.  Stay Jack: 'slid I'll do somewhat now afore I go in,

  though it be nothing but to revenge myself on the author; since I

  speak not his prologue, I'll go tell all the argument of his play

  afore-hand, and so stale his invention to the auditory, before it

  come forth.

  1 CHILD.  O, do not so.

  2 CHILD.  By no means.

  3 CHILD. [ADVANCING TO THE FRONT OF THE STAGE.]  First, the title

  of his play is Cynthia's Revels, as any man that hath hope to be

  saved by his book can witness; the scene, Gargaphie, which I do

  vehemently suspect for some fustian country; but let that vanish.

  Here is the court of Cynthia whither he brings Cupid travelling on

  foot, resolved to turn page.  By the way Cupid meets with Mercury,

  (as that's a thing to be noted); take any of our play-books without

  a Cupid or a Mercury in it, and burn it for an heretic in poetry.

  —[IN THESE AND THE SUBSEQUENT SPEECHES, AT EVERY BREAK, THE OTHER

  TWO INTERRUPT, AND ENDEAVOUR TO STOP HIM.]  Pray thee, let me

  alone.  Mercury, he in the nature of a conjurer, raises up Echo, who

  weeps over her love, or daffodil, Narcissus, a little; sings;

  curses the spring wherein the pretty foolish gentleman melted

  himself away: and there's an end of her.—Now I am to inform

  you, that Cupid and Mercury do both become pages.  Cupid attends on

  Philautia, or Self-love, a court lady: Mercury follows Hedon, the

  Voluptuous, and a courtier; one that ranks himself even with

  Anaides, or the Impudent, a gallant, and, that's my part; one that

  keeps Laughter, Gelaia, the daughter of Folly, a wench in boy's

  attire, to wait on him—These, in the court, meet with Amorphus,

  or the deformed, a traveller that hath drunk of the fountain, and

  there tells the wonders of the water.  They presently dispatch away

  their pages with bottles to fetch of it, and themselves go to visit

  the ladies.  But I should have told you—Look, these emmets put

  me out here—that with this Amorphus, there comes along a

  citizen's heir, Asotus, or the Prodigal, who, in imitation of the

  traveller, who hath the Whetstone following him, entertains the

  Beggar, to be his attendant.—Now, the nymphs who are mistresses

  to these gallants, are Philautia, Self-love; Phantaste, a light

  Wittiness; Argurion, Money; and their guardian, mother Moria; or

  mistress Folly.

  1 CHILD.  Pray thee, no more.

  3 CHILD.  There Cupid strikes Money in love with the Prodigal,

  makes her dote upon him, give him jewels, bracelets, carcanets,

  etc.  All which he most ingeniously departs withal to be made

  known to the other ladies and gallants; and in the heat of this,

  increases his train with the Fool to follow him, as well as the

  Beggar—By this time, your Beggar begins to wait close, who is

  returned with the rest of his fellow bottlemen.—There they all

  drink, save Argurion, who is fallen into a sudden apoplexy—

  1 CHILD.  Stop his mouth.

  3 CHILD.  And then there's a retired scholar there, you would not

  wish a thing to be better contemn'd of a society of gallants, than

  it is; and he applies his service, good gentleman, to the Lady

  Arete, or Virtue, a poor nymph of Cynthia's train, that's scarce

  able to buy herself a gown; you shall see her play in a black robe

  anon: a creature, that, I assure you, is no less scorn'd than

  himself.  Where am I now? at a stand!

  2 CHILD.  Come, leave at last, yet.

  3 CHILD.  O, the night is come ('twas somewhat dark, methought),

  and Cynthia intends to come forth; that helps it a little yet.  All

  the courtiers must provide for revels; they conclude upon a masque,

  the device of which is—What, will you ravish me?—that each of

  these Vices, being to appear before Cynthia, would seem other than

  indeed they are; and therefore assume the most neighbouring Virtues

  as their masking habit—I'd cry a rape, but that you are

  children.

  2 CHILD.  Come, we'll have no more of this anticipation; to give

  them the inventory of their cates aforehand, were the discipline of

  a tavern, and not fitting this presence.

  1 CHILD.  Tut, this was but to shew us the happiness of his memory.

  I thought at first he would have plaid the ignorant critic with

  everything along as he had gone; I expected some such device.

  3 CHILD.  O, you shall see me do that rarely; lend me thy cloak.

  1 CHILD.  Soft sir, you'll speak my prologue in it.

  3 CHILD.  No, would I might never stir then.

  2 CHILD.  Lend it him, lend it him:

  1 CHILD.  Well, you have sworn. [GIVES HIM THE CLOAK.]

  3 CHILD.  I have.  Now, sir; suppose I am one of your genteel

  auditors, that am come in, having paid my money at the door, with

  much ado, and here I take my place and sit down: I have my three

  sorts of tobacco in my pocket, my light by me, and thus I begin.

  [AT THE BREAKS HE TAKES HIS TOBACCO.]  By this light, I wonder that

  any man is so mad, to come to see these rascally tits play here—

  They do act like so many wrens or pismires—not the fifth part of

  a good face amongst them all.—And then their music is abominable

  —able to stretch a man's ears worse then ten—pillories and their

  ditties—most lamentable things, like the pitiful fellows that

  make them—poets.  By this vapour, an 'twere not for tobacco—

  I think—the very stench of 'em would poison me, I should not

  dare to come in at their gates—A man were better visit fifteen

  jails—or a dozen or two of hospitals—than once adventure to

  come near them.  How is't? well?

  1 CHILD.  Excellent; give me my cloak.

  3 CHILD.  Stay; you shall see me do another now: but a more sober,

  or better-gather'd gallant; that is, as it may be thought, some

  friend, or well-wisher to the house: and here I enter.

  1 CHILD.  What? upon the stage too?

  2 CHILD.  Yes; and I step forth like one of the children, and ask

  you.  Would you have a stool sir?

  3 CHILD.  A stool, boy!

  2 CHILD.  Ay, sir, if you'll give me sixpence, I'll fetch you one.

  3 CHILD.  For what, I pray thee? what shall I do with it?

  2 CHILD.  O lord, sir! will you betray your ignorance so much?

  why throne yourself in state on the stage, as other gentlemen use,

  sir.

  3 CHILD.  Away, wag; what would'st thou make an implement of me?

  'Slid, the boy takes me for a piece of perspective, I hold my life,

  or some silk curtain, come to hang the stage here!  Sir crack, I am

  none of your fresh pictures, that use to beautify the decayed dead

  arras in a public theatre.

  2 CHILD.  'Tis a sign, sir, you put not that confidence in your

  good clothes, and your better face, that a gentleman should do,

  sir.  But I pray you sir, let me be a suitor to you, that you will

  quit our stage then, and take a place; the play is instantly to

  begin.

  3 CHILD.  Most willingly, my good wag; but I would speak with your

  author: where is he?

  2 CHILD.  Not this way, I assure you sir; we are not so officiously

  befriended by him, as to have his presence in the tiring-house, to

  prompt us aloud, stamp at the book-holder, swear for our

  properties, curse the poor tireman, rail the music out of tune, and

  sweat for every venial trespass we commit, as some author would, if

  he had such fine enghles as we.  Well, 'tis but our hard fortune!

  3 CHILD.  Nay, crack, be not disheartened.

  2 CHILD.  Not I sir; but if you please to confer with our author, by

  attorney, you may, sir; our proper self here, stands for him.

  3 CHILD.  Troth, I have no such serious affair to negotiate with

  him; but what may very safely be turn'd upon thy trust.  It is in

  the general behalf of this fair society here that I am to speak;

  at least the more judicious part of it: which seems much distasted

  with the immodest and obscene writing of many in their plays.

  Besides, they could wish your poets would leave to be promoters of

  other men's jests, and to way-lay all the stale apothegms, or old

  books they can hear of, in print or otherwise, to farce their

  scenes withal.  That they would not so penuriously glean wit from

  every laundress or hackney-man; or derive their best grace, with

  servile imitation, from common stages, or observation of the

  company they converse with; as if their invention lived wholly

  upon another man's trencher.  Again, that feeding their friends

  with nothing of their own, but what they have twice or thrice

  cooked, they should not wantonly give out, how soon they had drest

  it; nor how many coaches came to carry away the broken meat,

  besides hobby-horses and foot-cloth nags.

  2 CHILD.  So, sir, this is all the reformation you seek?

  3 CHILD.  It is; do not you think it necessary to be practised, my

  little wag?

  2 CHILD.  Yes, where any such ill-habited custom is received.

  3 CHILD.  O (I had almost forgot it too), they say, the umbrae, or

  ghosts of some three or four plays departed a dozen years since,

  have been seen walking on your stage here; take heed boy, if your

  house be haunted with such hobgoblins, 'twill fright away all your

  spectators quickly.

  2 CHILD.  Good, sir; but what will you say now, if a poet, untouch'd

  with any breath of this disease, find the tokens upon you, that are

  of the auditory?  As some one civet-wit among you, that knows no

  other learning, than the price of satin and velvets: nor other

  perfection than the wearing of a neat suit; and yet will censure

  as desperately as the most profess'd critic in the house, presuming

  his clothes should bear him out in it. Another, whom it hath

  pleased nature to furnish with more beard than brain, prunes his

  mustaccio; lisps, and, with some score of affected oaths, swears

  down all that sit about him; "That the old Hieronimo, as it was

  first acted, was the only best, and judiciously penn'd play of

  Europe".  A third great-bellied juggler talks of twenty years

  since, and when Monsieur was here, and would enforce all wits to be

  of that fashion, because his doublet is still so.  A fourth

  miscalls all by the name of fustian, that his grounded capacity

  cannot aspire to.  A fifth only shakes his bottle head, and out of

  his corky brain squeezeth out a pitiful learned face, and is

  silent.

  3 CHILD.  By my faith, Jack, you have put me down: I would I knew

  how to get off with any indifferent grace! here take your cloak,

  and promise some satisfaction in your prologue, or, I'll be sworn

  we have marr'd all.

  2 CHILD.  Tut, fear not, child, this will never distaste a true

  sense: be not out, and good enough.  I would thou hadst some sugar

  candied to sweeten thy mouth.

  THE THIRD SOUNDING.

  PROLOGUE.

        If gracious silence, sweet attention,

        Quick sight, and quicker apprehension,

        The lights of judgment's throne, shine any where,

        Our doubtful author hopes this is their sphere;

        And therefore opens he himself to those,

        To other weaker beams his labours close,

        As loth to prostitute their virgin-strain,

        To every vulgar and adulterate brain.

        In this alone, his Muse her sweetness hath,

        She shuns the print of any beaten path;

        And proves new ways to come to learned ears:

        Pied ignorance she neither loves, nor fears.

        Nor hunts she after popular applause,

        Or foamy praise, that drops from common jaws

        The garland that she wears, their hands must twine,

        Who can both censure, understand, define

        What merit is: then cast those piercing rays,

        Round as a crown, instead of honour'd bays,

        About his poesy; which, he knows, affords

        Words, above action; matter, above words.

ACT I

  SCENE I.—A GROVE AND FOUNTAIN.

  ENTER CUPID, AND MERCURY WITH HIS CADUCEUS, ON DIFFERENT SIDES.

  CUP.  Who goes there?

  MER.  'Tis I, blind archer.

  CUP.  Who, Mercury?

  MER.  Ay.

  CUP.  Farewell.

  MER.  Stay Cupid.

  CUP.  Not in your company, Hermes, except your hands were riveted at

  your back.

  MER.  Why so, my little rover?

  CUP.  Because I know you have not a finger, but is as long as my

  quiver, cousin Mercury, when you please to extend it.

  MER.  Whence derive you this speech, boy?

  CUP.  O! 'tis your best polity to be ignorant.  You did never steal

  Mars his sword out of the sheath, you! nor Neptune's trident! nor

  Apollo's bow! no, not you!  Alas, your palms, Jupiter knows, they

  are as tender as the foot of a foundered nag, or a lady's face new

  mercuried, they'll touch nothing.

  MER.  Go to, infant, you'll be daring still.

  CUP.  Daring! O Janus! what a word is there? why, my light

  feather-heel'd coz, what are you any more than my uncle Jove's

  pander? a lacquey that runs on errands for him, and can whisper a

  light message to a loose wench with some round volubility? wait

  mannerly at a table with a trencher, warble upon a crowd a little,

  and fill out nectar when Ganymede's away? one that sweeps the god's

  drinking-room every morning, and sets the cushions in order again,

  which they threw one at another's head over night; can brush the

  carpets, call the stools again to their places, play the crier of

  the court with an audible voice, and take state of a president upon

  you at wrestlings, pleadings, negociations, etc.  Here's the

  catalogue of your employments, now!  O, no, I err; you have the

  marshalling of all the ghosts too that pass the Stygian ferry, and

  I suspect you for a share with the old sculler there, if the truth

  were known; but let that scape.  One other peculiar virtue you

  possess, in lifting, or leiger-du-main, which few of the house of

  heaven have else besides, I must confess.  But, methinks, that

  should not make you put that extreme distance 'twixt yourself and

  others, that we should be said to over-dare in speaking to your

  nimble deity.  So Hercules might challenge priority of us both,

  because he can throw the bar farther, or lift more join'd stools at

  the arm's end, than we.  If this might carry it, then we, who have

  made the whole body of divinity tremble at the twang of our bow,

  and enforc'd Saturnius himself to lay by his curled front, thunder,

  and three-fork'd fires, and put on a masking suit, too light for a

  reveller of eighteen to be seen in—

  MER.  How now! my dancing braggart in decimo sexto! charm your

  skipping tongue, or I'll—

  CUP.  What! use the virtue of your snaky tip staff there upon us?

  MER.  No, boy, but the smart vigour of my palm about your ears.

  You have forgot since I took your heels up into air, on the very

  hour I was born, in sight of all the bench of deities, when the

  silver roof of the Olympian palace rung again with applause of

  the fact.

  CUP.  O no, I remember it freshly, and by a particular instance;

  for my mother Venus, at the same time, but stoop'd to embrace you,

  and, to speak by metaphor, you borrow'd a girdle of her's, as you

  did Jove's sceptre while he was laughing; and would have done his

  thunder too, but that 'twas too hot for your itching fingers.

  MER.  'Tis well, sir.

  CUP.  I heard, you but look'd in at Vulcan's forge the other day,

  and entreated a pair of his new tongs along with you for company:

  'tis joy on you, i' faith, that you will keep your hook'd talons in

  practice with any thing.  'Slight, now you are on earth, we shall

  have you filch spoons and candlesticks rather than fail: pray Jove

  the perfum'd courtiers keep their casting-bottles, pick-tooths, and

  shittle-cocks from you, or our more ordinary gallants their

  tobacco-boxes; for I am strangely jealous of your nails.

  MER.  Never trust me, Cupid, but you are turn'd a most acute

  gallant of late! the edge of my wit is clean taken off with the

  fine and subtile stroke of your thin-ground tongue; you fight with

  too poignant a phrase, for me to deal with.

  CUP.  O Hermes, your craft cannot make me confident.  I know my own

  steel to be almost spent, and therefore entreat my peace with you,

  in time: you are too cunning for me to encounter at length, and I

  think it my safest ward to close.

  MER.  Well, for once, I'll suffer you to win upon me, wag; but use

  not these strains too often, they'll stretch my patience.  Whither

  might you march, now?

  CUP.  Faith, to recover thy good thoughts, I'll discover my whole

  project.  The huntress and queen of these groves, Diana, in regard

  of some black and envious slanders hourly breathed against her, for

  her divine justice on Acteon, as she pretends, hath here in the

  vale of Gargaphie, proclaim'd a solemn revels, which (her godhead

  put off) she will descend to grace, with the full and royal expense

  of one of her clearest moons: in which time it shall be lawful for

  all sorts of ingenious persons to visit her palace, to court her

  nymphs, to exercise all variety of generous and noble pastimes; as

  well to intimate how far she treads such malicious imputations

  beneath her, as also to shew how clear her beauties are from the

  least wrinkle of austerity they may be charged with.

  MER.  But, what is all this to Cupid?

  CUP.  Here do I mean to put off the title of a god, and take the

  habit of a page, in which disguise, during the interim of these

  revels, I will get to follow some one of Diana's maids, where, if

  my bow hold, and my shafts fly but with half the willingness and

  aim they are directed, I doubt not but I shall really redeem the

  minutes I have lost, by their so long and over nice proscription of

  my deity from their court.

  MER.  Pursue it, divine Cupid, it will be rare.

  CUP.  But will Hermes second me?

  MER.  I am now to put in act an especial designment from my father

  Jove; but, that perform'd, I am for any fresh action that offers

  itself.

  CUP.  Well, then we part. [EXIT.]

  MER.  Farewell good wag.

  Now to my charge.—Echo, fair Echo speak,

  'Tis Mercury that calls thee; sorrowful nymph,

  Salute me with thy repercussive voice,

  That I may know what cavern of the earth,

  Contains thy airy spirit, how, or where

  I may direct my speech, that thou may'st hear.

  ECHO.  [BELOW]  Here.

  MER.  So nigh!

  ECHO.  Ay.

  MER.  Know, gentle soul, then, I am sent from Jove,

  Who, pitying the sad burthen of thy woes,

  Still growing on thee, in thy want of words

  To vent thy passion for Narcissus' death,

  Commands, that now, after three thousand years,

  Which have been exercised in Juno's spite,

  Thou take a corporal figure and ascend,

  Enrich'd with vocal and articulate power.

  Make haste, sad nymph, thrice shall my winged rod

  Strike the obsequious earth, to give thee way.

  Arise, and speak thy sorrows, Echo, rise,

  Here, by this fountain, where thy love did pine,

  Whose memory lives fresh to vulgar fame,

  Shrined in this yellow flower, that bears his name.

  ECHO.  [ASCENDS.]  His name revives, and lifts me up from earth,

  O, which way shall I first convert myself,

  Or in what mood shall I essay to speak,

  That, in a moment, I may be deliver'd

  Of the prodigious grief I go withal?

  See, see, the mourning fount, whose springs weep yet

  Th' untimely fate of that too beauteous boy,

  That trophy of self-love, and spoil of nature,

  Who, now transform'd into this drooping flower,

  Hangs the repentant head, back from the stream,

  As if it wish'd, "Would I had never look'd

  In such a flattering mirror!"  O Narcissus,

  Thou that wast once, and yet art, my Narcissus,

  Had Echo but been private with thy thoughts,

  She would have dropt away herself in tears,

  Till she had all turn'd water; that in her,

  As in a truer glass, thou might'st have gazed

  And seen thy beauties by more kind reflection,

  But self-love never yet could look on truth

  But with blear'd beams; slick flattery and she

  Are twin-born sisters, and so mix their eyes,

  As if you sever one, the other dies.

  Why did the gods give thee a heavenly form,

  And earthly thoughts to make thee proud of it?

  Why do I ask?  'Tis now the known disease

  That beauty hath, to bear too deep a sense

  Of her own self-conceived excellence.

  O, hadst thou known the worth of heaven's rich gift,

  Thou wouldst have turn'd it to a truer use,

  And not with starv'd and covetous ignorance,

  Pined in continual eyeing that bright gem,

  The glance whereof to others had been more,

  Than to thy famish'd mind the wide world's store:

  So wretched is it to be merely rich!

  Witness thy youth's dear sweets here spent untasted,

  Like a fair taper, with his own flame wasted.

  MER.  Echo be brief, Saturnia is abroad,

  And if she hear, she'll storm at Jove's high will.

  CUP.  I will, kind Mercury, be brief as time.

  Vouchsafe me, I may do him these last rites,

  But kiss his flower, and sing some mourning strain

  Over his wat'ry hearse.

  MER.  Thou dost obtain;

  I were no son to Jove, should I deny thee,

  Begin, and more to grace thy cunning voice,

  The humorous air shall mix her solemn tunes

  With thy sad words: strike, music from the spheres,

  And with your golden raptures swell our ears.

  ECHO. [ACCOMPANIED]

  Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears:

  Yet, slower, yet; O faintly, gentle springs:

  List to the heavy part the music bears,

  Woe weeps out her division, when she sings.

  Droop herbs and flowers,

  Fall grief and showers;

  Our beauties are not ours;

  O, I could still,

  Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,

  Drop, drop, drop, drop,

  Since nature's pride is now a wither'd daffodil.—

  MER.  Now have you done?

  ECHO.  Done presently, good Hermes: bide a little;

  Suffer my thirsty eye to gaze awhile,

  But e'en to taste the place, and I am vanish'd.

  MER.  Forego thy use and liberty of tongue,

  And thou mayst dwell on earth, and sport thee there.

  ECHO.  Here young Acteon fell, pursued, and torn

  By Cynthia's wrath, more eager than his hounds;

  And here—ah me, the place is fatal!—see

  The weeping Niobe, translated hither

  From Phrygian mountains; and by Phoebe rear'd,

  As the proud trophy of her sharp revenge.

  MER.  Nay but hear—

  ECHO.  But here, O here, the fountain of self-love,

  In which Latona, and her careless nymphs,

  Regardless of my sorrows, bathe themselves

  In hourly pleasures.

  MER.  Stint thy babbling tongue!

  Fond Echo, thou profan'st the grace is done thee.

  So idle worldlings merely made of voice,

  Censure the powers above them.  Come away,

  Jove calls thee hence; and his will brooks no stay.

  ECHO.  O, stay: I have but one poor thought to clothe

  In airy garments, and then, faith, I go.

  Henceforth, thou treacherous and murdering spring,

  Be ever call'd the FOUNTAIN OF SELF-LOVE:

  And with thy water let this curse remain,

  As an inseparate plague, that who but taste

  A drop thereof, may, with the instant touch,

  Grow dotingly enamour'd on themselves.

  Now, Hermes, I have finish'd.

  MER.  Then thy speech

  Must here forsake thee, Echo, and thy voice,

  As it was wont, rebound but the last words.

  Farewell.

  ECHO.  [RETIRING.]  Well.

  MER.  Now, Cupid, I am for you, and your mirth,

  To make me light before I leave the earth.

  ENTER AMORPHUS, HASTILY.

  AMO.  Dear spark of beauty, make not so fast away:

  ECHO.  Away.

  MER.  Stay, let me observe this portent yet.

  AMO.  I am neither your Minotaur, nor your Centaur, nor your satyr,

  nor your hyaena, nor your babion, but your mere traveller, believe

  me.

  ECHO.  Leave me.

  MER.  I guess'd it should be some travelling motion pursued Echo

  so.

  AMO.  Know you from whom you fly? or whence?

  ECHO.  Hence.  [EXIT.]

  AMO.  This is somewhat above strange: A nymph of her feature and

  lineament, to be so preposterously rude! well, I will but cool

  myself at yon spring, and follow her.

  MER.  Nay, then, I am familiar with the issue: I will leave you

  too.  [EXIT.]

  AMOR.  I am a rhinoceros, if I had thought a creature of her

  symmetry would have dared so improportionable and abrupt a

  digression.—Liberal and divine fount, suffer my profane hand to

  take of thy bounties.  [TAKES UP SOME OF THE WATER.]  By the purity

  of my taste, here is most ambrosiac water; I will sup of it again.

  By thy favour, sweet fount.  See, the water, a more running,

  subtile, and humorous nymph than she permits me to touch, and

  handle her.  What should I infer? if my behaviours had been of a

  cheap or customary garb; my accent or phrase vulgar; my garments

  trite; my countenance illiterate, or unpractised in the encounter

  of a beautiful and brave attired piece; then I might, with some

  change of colour, have suspected my faculties: But, knowing myself

  an essence so sublimated and refined by travel; of so studied and

  well exercised a gesture; so alone in fashion, able to render the

  face of any statesman living; and to speak the mere extraction of

  language, one that hath now made the sixth return upon venture; and

  was your first that ever enrich'd his country with the true laws of

  the duello; whose optics have drunk the spirit of beauty in some

  eight score and eighteen prince's courts, where I have resided, and

  been there fortunate in the amours of three hundred and forty and five

  ladies, all nobly, if not princely descended; whose names I have in

  catalogue: To conclude, in all so happy, as even admiration

  herself doth seem to fasten her kisses upon me:—certes, I do

  neither see, nor feel, nor taste, nor savour the least steam or

  fume of a reason, that should invite this foolish, fastidious

  nymph, so peevishly to abandon me.  Well, let the memory of her

  fleet into air; my thoughts and I am for this other element, water.

  ENTER CRITES AND ASOTUS.

  CRI.  What, the well dieted Amorphus become a water-drinker!  I see

  he means not to write verses then.

  ASO.  No, Crites! why?

  CRI.  Because—

Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possunt,

Quae scribuntur aquae potoribus.

  AMO.  What say you to your Helicon?

  CRI.  O, the Muses' well! that's ever excepted.

  AMO.  Sir, your Muses have no such water, I assure you; your

  nectar, or the juice of your nepenthe, is nothing to it; 'tis above

  your metheglin, believe it.

  ASO.  Metheglin; what's that, sir? may I be so audacious to

  demand?

  AMO.  A kind of Greek wine I have met with, sir, in my travels; it

  is the same that Demosthenes usually drunk, in the composure of all

  his exquisite and mellifluous orations.

  CRI.  That's to be argued, Amorphus, if we may credit Lucian, who,

  in his Encomio Demosthenis, affirms, he never drunk but water in

  any of his compositions.

  AMO.  Lucian is absurd, he knew nothing: I will believe mine own

  travels before all the Lucians of Europe.  He doth feed you with

  fittons, figments, and leasings.

  CRI.  Indeed, I think, next a traveller, he does prettily well.

  AMO.  I assure you it was wine, I have tasted it, and from the hand

  of an Italian antiquary, who derives it authentically from the duke

  of Ferrara's bottles.  How name you the gentleman you are in rank

  there with, sir?

  CRI.  'Tis Asotus, son to the late deceased Philargyrus, the

  citizen.

  AMO.  Was his father of any eminent place or means?

  CRI.  He was to have been praetor next year.

  AMO.  Ha! a pretty formal young gallant, in good sooth; pity he is

  not more genteelly propagated.  Hark you, Crites, you may say to

  him what I am, if you please; though I affect not popularity, yet I

  would loth to stand out to any, whom you shall vouchsafe to call

  friend.

  CRI.  Sir, I fear I may do wrong to your sufficiencies in the

  reporting them, by forgetting or misplacing some one: yourself can