TAC. The blushing childhood of the cheerful
Is almost grown a youth, and overclimbs
Yonder gilt eastern hills; about which time
Gustus most earnestly importun’d me
To meet him hereabouts, what cause I know not.
MEN. You shall do shortly, to your cost, I hope. [Aside.]
TAC. Sure by the sun it should be nine o’clock.
MEN. What, a star-gazer! will you ne’er look down? [Aside.]
TAC. Clear is the sun and blue the firmament;
Methinks the heavens do smile— [TACTUS sneezeth.
MEN. At thy mishap!
To look so high, and stumble in a trap.
[Aside. TACTUS stumbleth at the robe and crown.
TAC. High thoughts have slipp’ry feet, I had well-nigh fallen.
MEN. Well doth he fall that riseth with a fall. [Aside.]
TAC. What’s this?
MEN. O, are you taken? ’tis in vain to strive. [Aside.]
TAC. How now?
MEN. You’ll be so entangled straight— [Aside.]
TAC. A crown!
MEN. That it will be hard— [Aside.]
TAC. And a robe.
MEN. To loose yourself. [Aside.]
TAC. A crown and a robe.
MEN. It had been fitter for you to have found a fool’s coat and a bauble, eh, eh? [Aside.]
TAC. Jupiter, Jupiter, how came this here?
MEN. O sir, Jupiter is making thunder, he hears you not: here’s one knows better. [Aside.]
TAC. ’Tis wondrous rich, ha! but sure it
is not so, ho!
Do I not sleep and dream of this good luck, ha?
No, I am awake and feel it now;
Whose should it be? [He takes it up.
MEN. Set up a si quis for it. [Aside.]
TAC. Mercury! all’s mine own; here’s none to cry half’s mine.
MEN. When I am gone.
TAC. Tactus, thy sneezing somewhat did portend.
Was ever man so fortunate as I?
To break his shins at such a stumbling-block!
Roses and bays, pack hence: this crown and robe
My brows and body circles and invests;
How gallantly it fits me! sure the slave
Measur’d my head that wrought this coronet.
They lie that say complexions cannot change:
My blood’s ennobled, and I am transform’d
Unto the sacred temper of a king.
Methinks I hear my noble parasites
Styling me Caesar or great Alexander;
Licking my feet, and wondering where I got
This precious ointment. How my pace is mended!
How princely do I speak! how sharp I threaten!
Peasants, I’ll curb your headstrong impudence,
And make you tremble when the lion roars,
Ye earth-bred worms. O, for a looking-glass!
Poets will write whole volumes of this scorce;
Where’s my attendants? Come hither, sirrah, quickly;
Or by the wings of Hermes—