PHA. Away, then, hie thee again; meet me at the court within this hour at the farthest. [Exit HEURESIS.] O heavens! how have I been troubled these latter times with women, fools, babes, tailors, poets, swaggerers, gulls, ballad-makers! They have almost disrobed me of all the toys and trifles I can devise. Were it not that I pity the multitude of printers, these sonnet-mongers should starve for conceits for all Phantastes. But these puling lovers—I cannot but laugh at them, and their encomiums of their mistresses. They make, forsooth, her hair of gold, her eyes of diamond, her cheeks of roses, her lips of rubies, her teeth of pearl, and her whole body of ivory; and when they have thus idoled her like Pygmalion, they fall down and worship her. Psyche, thou hast laid a hard task upon my shoulders to invent at every one’s ask. Were it not that I refresh my dulness once a day with thy most angelical presence, ’twere impossible for me to undergo it.
COMMUNIS SENSUS, a grave
man, in a black velvet cassock
like a councillor, speaks coming out of the door.
COMMUNIS SENSUS, PHANTASTES.
COM. SEN. I cannot stay, I tell you. ’Tis more than time I were at court. I know my sovereign Psyche hath expected me this hour.
PHA. In good time; yonder comes Common Sense. I imagine it should be he by his voice.
COM. SEN. Crave my counsel! Tell me what manner of man he is? Can he entertain a man in his house? Can he hold his velvet cap in one hand, and vail his bonnet with the other? Knows he how to become a scarlet gown? Hath he a pair of fresh posts at his door?
PHA. He’s about some hasty state matters. He talks of posts, methinks.
COM. SEN. Can he part a couple of dogs brawling in the street? Why, then, choose him mayor. Upon my credit, he’ll prove a wise officer.
PHA. Save you, my lord; I have attended your leisure this hour.
COM. SEN. Fie upon’t! What a toil have I had to choose them a mayor yonder? There’s a fusty currier will have this man; there’s a chandler wipes his nose on his sleeve, and swears it shall not be so; there’s a mustard-maker looks as keen as vinegar will have another. O, this many-headed multitude, ’tis a hard matter to please them!
PHA. Especially where the multitude is so well-headed. But I pray you, where’s Master Memory? Hath he forgotten himself, that he is not here?
COM. SEN. ’Tis high time he were at court. I would he would come.
MEMORY, an old decrepit man, in a black velvet cassock, a taffeta gown furred with white grogram, a white beard, velvet slippers, a watch, staff, &c. ANAMNESTES, his page, in a grave satin suit, purple buskins, a garland of bays and rosemary, a gimmal ring with one link hanging, ribbons and threads tied to some of his fingers; in his hand a pair of table-books, &c.
MEMORY, ANAMNESTES, PHANTASTES, COMMUNIS SENSUS.