A painful minute seems a tedious year.
A constant mind eternal woes will bear.
When shall our souls their wearied lodge forego?
When we have tired misery and woe.
PHILOMUSUS. Soon may then fates this gaol-deliver send us: Small woes vex long, [but] great woes quickly end us. But let’s leave this capping of rhymes, Studioso, and follow our late device, that we may maintain our heads in caps, our bellies in provender, and our backs in saddle and bridle. Hitherto we have sought all the honest means we could to live, and now let us dare aliqua brevibus gyris et carcere dignum; let us run through all the lewd forms of lime-twig, purloining villanies; let us prove coneycatchers, bawds, or anything, so we may rub out. And first my plot for playing the French doctor—that shall hold; our lodging stands here fitly in Shoe Lane: for, if our comings-in be not the better, London may shortly throw an old shoe after us; and with those shreds of French that we gathered up in our host’s house in Paris, we’ll gull the world, that hath in estimation foreign physicians: and if any of the hidebound brethren of Cambridge and Oxford, or any of those stigmatic masters of art that abused us in times pass’d, leave their own physicians, and become our patients, we’ll alter quite the style of them; for they shall never hereafter write, Your lordship’s most bounden, but, Your lordship’s most laxative.
It shall be so: see what a little vermin poverty altereth a whole milky
So then myself straight with revenge I’ll sate.
Provoked patience grows intemperate.
ACTUS I, SCAENA 5.
Enter RICHARDETTO, JAQUES, Scholar learning French.
How now, my little knave? Quelle nouvelle, monsieur?
There’s a fellow with a nightcap on his head, an urinal in his hand,
would fain speak with Master Theodore.
Parle Francois, mon petit garcon.
Ici un homme, avec le bonnet de nuit sur la tete, et un urinal en la
main, que veut parler avec Maistre Theodore.
Jaques, a bonne heure.
ACTUS I., SCAENA 6.
FUROR POETICUS; and presently after enters PHANTASMA.
FUROR POETICUS, rapt with contemplation.
Why, how now, pedant Phoebus? are you smouching Thaly on her tender
lips? There, hoi! peasant, avaunt! Come, pretty short-nosed nymph. O
sweet Thalia, I do kiss thy foot. What, Clio? O sweet Clio! Nay,
prythee, do not weep, Melpomene. What, Urania, Polyhymnia, and Calliope!