Or else I’ll break her speckled bow in pieces.
Will she not? no, she hates me like her mistress.
Why then descend, you rogues, to the vile deep.
Fetch Neptune hither: charge him bring the sea
To quench these flames, or else the world’s fair frame
Will be in greater danger to be burnt,
Than when proud Phaeton rul’d the sun’s rich chariot.
SOM. I’ll take that care the world shall
not be burnt,
If Somnus’ cords can hold you. [SOMNUS binds him.
TAC. What Vulcan’s this that offers to
A greater soldier than the god of war?
SOM. He that each night with bloodless battle
The proudest conqueror that triumphs by wars.
CRA. Now, Somnus, there’s but only one
That was the author of these outrages.
SOM. Who’s that? is he under my command?
CRA. Yes, yes, ’tis Appetitus; if you go that way and look about those thickets, I’ll go hither, and search this grove. I doubt not but to find him.
[Exeunt SOMNUS et CRAPULA.
SCAENA DECIMA SEXTA.
APPETITUS IRASCIBILIS with a
willow in his hand, pulled up
by the roots, SOMNUS, CRAPULA. The Senses all asleep.
APP. So now’s the time that I would gladly
These madding Senses that abus’d me thus;
What, haunt me like an owl? make an ass of me?
No, they shall know I scorn to serve such masters,
As cannot master their affections.
Their injuries have chang’d my nature now;
I’ll be no more call’d hungry parasite,
But henceforth answer to the wrathful name
Of Angry Appetite. My choler’s up.
Zephyrus, cool me quickly with thy fan,
Or else I’ll cut thy cheeks. Why this is brave,
Far better than to fawn at Gustus’ table
For a few scraps; no, no such words as these—
By Pluto, stab the villain, kill the slave:
By the infernal hags I’ll hough the rogue,
And paunch the rascal that abus’d me thus.
Such words as these fit angry Appetite.
CRA. Somnus, Somnus, come hither, come hither quickly, he’s here, he’s here!
APP. Ay, marry is he, sirrah, what of that base miscreant Crapula?
CRA. O gentle Appetitus!
APP. You muddy gulch, dar’st look
me in the face,
While mine eyes sparkle with revengeful fire? [Beats him.
CRA. Good Appetitus!
APP. Peace, you fat bawson, peace,
Seest not this fatal engine of my wrath?
Villain, I’ll maul thee for thine old offences,
And grind thy bones to powder with this pestle!
You, when I had no weapons to defend me,
Could beat me out of doors; but now prepare:
Make thyself ready, for thou shalt not ’scape.
Thus doth the great revengeful Appetite
Upon his fat foe wreak his wrathful spite.