MEN. Who is this? Visus?
APP. Ay, ay, ay; otherwise called Polyphemus.
VIS. By heaven’s bright sun, the day’s
most glorious eye,
That lighteneth all the world but Polypheme.
And by mine eye, that once was answerable
Unto that sun, but now’s extinguished—
MEN. He can see to swear, methinks.
VIS. If I but once lay hands upon the slave,
That thus hath robb’d me of my dearest jewel,
I’ll rend the miscreant to a thousand pieces,
And gnash his trembling members ’twixt my teeth,
Drinking his live-warm blood to satisfy
The boiling thirst of pain and furiousness,
That thus exasperates great Polypheme.
MEN. Pray thee, Appetitus, see how he grasps for that he would be loth to find.
APP. What’s that? a stumblingblock?
VIS. These hands, that whilom tore up sturdy
And rent the rock that dash’d out Acis’ brains,
Bath’d in the stole bliss of my Galatea,
Serve now (O misery!) to no better use,
But for bad guides to my unskilful feet,
Never accustom’d thus to be directed.
MEN. As I am a rogue, he wants nothing but a wheel to make him the true picture of fortune; how say’st? what, shall we play at blind-man’s-buff with him?
APP. Ay, if thou wilt; but first I’ll try whether he can see?
VIS. Find me out Outis, search the rocks and
The hills and dales, and all the coasts adjoining,
That I may have him, and revenge my wrong.
APP. Visus, methinks your eyes are well enough.
VIS. What’s he that calls me Visus? dost not know—
[They run about him, playing with him, and abusing him.
APP. To him, Mendacio, to him, to him.
MEN. There, there, Appetitus, he comes, he comes; ware, ware, he comes; ha, ha, ha, ha!
[VISUS stumbles, falls down, and sits still.
MENDACIO, APPETITUS, TACTUS, with a great blackjack in his hand.
MEN. Is this he that thinks himself Hercules?
APP. Ay, wilt see me outswagger him?
MEN. Ay, do, do; I love not to sport with such mad playfellows: tickle him, Appetitus; tickle him, tickle him. [Exit MENDACIO.
TAC. Have I not here the great and puissant club,
Wherewith I conquer’d three-chapp’d Cerberus?
APP. Have I not here the sharp and warlike teeth,
That at one breakfast quail’d thrice-three hogs’ faces?
TAC. And are not these Alcides’ brawny
That rent the lion’s jaws, and kill’d the boar?
APP. And is not this the stomach that defeated
Nine yards of pudding and a rank of pies?
TAC. Did not I crop the sevenfold hydra’s
And with a river cleans’d Augaea’s stable?
APP. Did not I crush a sevenfold custard’s
And with my tongue swept a well-furnish’d table?