TAC.  The blushing[179] childhood of the cheerful morn
Is almost grown a youth, and overclimbs[180]
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[181], 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.

[Exit MENDACIO.

SCAENA SEXTA.

    TACTUS solus.

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[182]:  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[183];
Where’s my attendants?  Come hither, sirrah, quickly;
Or by the wings of Hermes—­