 Act one of every man out of his humor by Ben Johnson. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. To the noblest nurseries of humanity and liberty in the kingdom, the Inns of Court. I understand you gentlemen, not your houses, and a worthy succession of you, to all time as being born the judges of these studies. When I wrote this poem, I had friendship with divers in your societies, who, as they were great names in learning, so they were no less examples of living. Of them, and then, that I say no more, it was not despised. Now that the printer, by a doubled charge, thinks that worthy, a longer life than commonly the heir of such things doth promise, I am careful to put a servant to their pleasures, who are the inheritors of the first-favor-born it. Yet I command it lie not in the way of your more noble and useful studies to the public, for so I shall suffer for it. But when the gown and cap is off, and the lord of liberty reigns, then, to take it in your hands, perhaps may make some venture, tinketed with humanity, read, and not repent him. By your true honourer, Ben Johnson. Grammatis personae. Asper, red by Nemo. Masalente, read by Eva Davis. Puntervolo, read by Josh Kibbe. Carlo Buffone, read by Thomas Peter. Festinius brisk, read by Brad. Ceverro, read by Todd. Fellas, read by Sonia. Saviolina, read by Thon. Sordido, read by Chris Pyle. Fungoso, read by Aaron White. Sugliardo, read by Elijah Fisher. Cavaliers shift, read by Devorah Allen. Nudery, read by Zames Currin. Clove, read by Nemo. Orange, read by T.J. Burns. Cordatus, read by Lianya. Mitis, read by Alan Mapstone. Prologue, read by Todd. Hind, read by Stefan. Senado, read by Larry Wilson. Gentlewoman, read by Thon. Lady Puntervolo, read by Linda Olsen-Fightak. Fido, read by Jim Locke. Taylor, read by Beth Thomas. First Rustic, read by Sandra Schmidt. Second Rustic, read by Lex Hankins. Third Rustic, read by Elsie Selwyn. Fourth Rustic, read by April 6090. Fifth Rustic, read by Son of the Exiles. Musician, read by Fulham. Haberdasher, read by Nemo. Groom, read by Lex Hankins. George, read by Larry Wilson. Constable, read by Nemo. Drawer, read by Abaii. Servant, read by Elijah Fisher. Staged Directions, read by Campbell Schelp. The Characters of the Persons. Asper, he is of an ingenious and free spirit, eager and constant in reproof, without fear controlling the world's abuses. One whom no servile hope of gain or frosty apprehension of danger can make to be a parasite, either to time, place, or opinion. Macalenti, a man well-parted, a sufficient scholar, and travailed, who, wanting that place in the world's account which he thinks his merit capable of, falls into such an envious apoplexy, with which his judgment is so dazzled and distasted that he grows violently impatient of any opposite happiness in another. Punta Volo, a vain, glorious knight, over-englishing his travels and wholly consecrated to singularity, the very Jacob's staff of compliment, a sir that hath lived to see the revolution of time in most of his apparel. Of presence good enough, but so palpably affected to his own praise, that for want and flatterers he commends himself to the floutage of his own family. He deals upon returns and strange performances, resolving, and despite of public derision, to stick to his own fashion, phrase, and gesture. Carlo Bafone, a public, scurrilous, and profane jester that more swift than Cirque, with absurd similes, will transform any person into deformity, a good feast-town or banquet-beagle that will send you out a supper some three miles off and swear to his patrons, damn him. He came in oars when he was but wafted over in a scoller, a slave that hath an extraordinary gift in pleasing his palate, and will swill up more sack at a sitting than would make all the guard a posset. His religion is railing in his discourse ribaldry, fastidious brisk, a neat spruce affecting courtier, one that wears clothes well, and now in fashion, practiceth by his glass how to salute, speaks good remnants, notwithstanding the base vile and tobacco, swears tersely and with variety, cares not what ladies' favor he belies, or great man's familiarity, a good property to perfume the boot of a coach. He will borrow another man's horse to praise, and backs him as his own, or, for need, on foot can post himself into credit with his merchant, only with the jingle of his fur and the jerk of his wand. Deliro, a good doting citizen who, it is thought, might be of the common counsel for his wealth, a fellow sincerely besotted on his own wife, and so wrapped with the conceit of her perfections that he simply holds himself unworthy of her. And in that hoodwinked humor, lives more like a suitor than a husband, standing in as true dread of her displeasure as when he first made love to her. He doth sacrifice two pence in Juniper to her every morning before she rises, and wakes her with villainous out-of-tune music, which she out of her contempt, though not out of her judgment, is sure to dislike. Follis, Deliro's wife and idol, a proud mincing peat, and as perverse as he is officious, she dotes as perfectly upon the courtier, as her husband doth on her, and only wants the face to be dishonest. Saviolina, a court lady whose wadiest praise is the light wit, admired by herself, and one more, her servant brisk. Sordido, a wretched, hob-nailed chuff, whose recreation is reading of almanacs, and felicity foul-weather, one that never prayed but for a lean dearth, and ever wept in fat harvest. Fungoso, the son of Sordido and a student, one that has reveled in his time and follows the fashion far off like a spy. He makes the whole bent of his endeavors to ring sufficient means from his wretched father to put him in the courtier's cut, at which he earnestly aims, but so unluckily, that he still lights short a suit. Sagliardo, an essential clown, brother to Sordido, yet so enamored of the name of a gentleman that he will have it, though he buys it. He comes up every term to learn to take tobacco and see new motions. He is in his kingdom when in company, where he may well be laughed at. Shift, a threadbare shark, one that never was a soldier, yet lives upon lendings, his profession is scaldering and oddling, his bank, Paul's, and his warehouse pick thatch, takes up single testins upon oaths till doomsday, falls under executions of three shillings, and enters into five groat bonds. He waylays the reports of services and cons them without book, damning himself he came new from them, when all the while he was taking the diet in the body house, or lay pond in his chamber for rent and victuals. He is of that admirable and happy memory that he will salute one for an old acquaintance that he never saw in his life before. He usurps upon cheats, quarrels, and robberies, which he never did, only to get him a name. His chief exercises are taking the whiff, squiring a cockatrice, and making privy searches for impardors. Clove and orange, an inseparable case of coxcombs, city-born, the Gemini, or Twins of Faupery, that like a pair of wooden foils, are fit for nothing but to be practised upon. Being well flattered, they'll lend money and repent when they have done. Their glory is to invite players and make suppers, and in company of better rank, to avoid the suspect of insufficiency, will enforce their ignorance most desperately to set upon the understanding of anything. Orange is the most humorous of the two, whose small portion of juice being squeezed out. Clove serves to stick him with commendations. Cordatus, the author's friend, a man innately acquainted with the scope and drift of his plot, of a discreet and understanding judgment, and has the place of a moderator. Midas is a person of no action, and therefore we afford him no character. The stage, after the second sounding, enter Cordatus, Asper, and Midas. Name I dare, Asper. Stay your mind. Away. Who is so patient of this impious world that he can check his spirit or reign his tongue? Or who hath such a dead, unfeeling sense that heaven's horrid thunders cannot wake, to see the earth cracked with a weight of sin, hell gaping under us and o'er our heads, black ravenous ruin, where their sail-stretched wings, ready to sink us down and cover us? Who can behold such prodigies as these, and have his lips sealed up? Not I. My soul was never ground into such oily colors, to flatter vice and daub iniquity, but with an armed and resolved hand, I'll strip the ragged follies of the time, naked, as at their birth. Be not too bold. You trouble me, and with a whip of steel, print wounding lashes in their iron ribs. I fear no moods stamped in a private brow, when I am pleased to unmask a public vice. I fear no strumpets, drugs, nor ruffians stab. Should I detect their hateful luxuries? No broker's usurers or lawyer's gripe? Were I disposed to say? They are all corrupt. I fear no courtiers frown. Should I applaud the easy flexure of his supple hams? Tut, these are so innate and popular, that drunken custom would not shame to laugh. In scorn, at him that should but dare to tax them. And yet, not one of these, but knows his works, knows what damnation is, the devil in hell. Yet hourly they persist, grow rank and sin, puffing their souls away in perjurious air, to cherish their extortion, pride, or lust. Forbear good, Asper. Be not like your name. No, but to such whose faces are all zeal. And, with the words of Hercules, invade such crimes as these, that will not smell of sin. But seem, as they were made of sanctity, religion in their garments and in their hair, cut shorter than their eyebrows, when their conscience is vaster than the ocean, and devours more wretches than the counters. Gentle Asper, contain your spirits in more stricter bounds, and be not thus transported with the violence of your strong thoughts. Unless your breath had power, to melt the world, and mould it new again, it is in vain to spend it in these moods. Asper, turning to the stage. I observe not this thronged round till now. Gracious and kind, spectators, you are welcome. Apollo and Muses feast your eyes with graceful objects, and may our Minerva answer your hopes onto their largest strain. Yet here mistake me not, judicious friends. I do not this to beg your patience, or, surveily, to fawn on your applause, like some dry brain despairing in his mirrored. Let me be censured by the austereous brow, where I want art or judgment tax me freely. Let envious censors, with their broadest eyes, look through and through me, I pursue no favour. Only vouch save me your tensions, and I will give you music worth your ears. Oh, how I hate the monstrousness of time, where every servile, imitating spirit, plagued with an itching leprosy of wit, and a mere halting fury strives to fling his ulcerous body in the thespian spring, and straight leaps forth a poet. But, as lame as Vulcan, or the founder of Cripplegate. In faith this humour will come ill to some. You will be thought to be too peremptory. This humour? Good. And why this humour, Mites? Nay, do not turn but answer. Answer what? I will not stir your patience, pardon me. I urged it for some reasons, and the rather, to give these ignorant well-spoken days, some taste of their abuse of this word humour. Oh, do not let your purpose fall, Good Asper. It cannot but arrive most acceptable, chiefly to such as have the happiness daily to see how the poor innocent word is wracked and tortured. Aye, I pray you proceed. Ha, what? What is it? For the abuse of humour. Oh, I crave pardon. I had lost my thoughts. Why, humour, as tis ends, we thus define it, to be a quality of air or water, and in itself holds these two properties, moisture and flucture, as, for demonstration, poor water on this floor, to a wet and run, likewise the air, forced through a horn or trumpet, flows instantly away, and leaves behind a kind of dew, and hence we do conclude that what saw air hath flucturing humidity, as wanting power to contain itself, is humour. So in every human body, the collar, melancholy, phlegm in blood, by reason that they flow continually in some one part, and are not continent, receive the name of humours. Now thus far it may, by metaphor, apply itself unto the general disposition, as when some one peculiar quality doth so possess a man, that it doth draw all his effects, his spirits, and his powers, and their confluxions, all to run one way. This may be truly said to be a humour, but that a rook, by wearing a pied feather, a cable hat-band, or the three piled rough, a yard of shoe-tie, or the switzer's knot on his French garters, should affect a humour. Oh, it is more than most ridiculous. He speaks pure truth, now of an idiot have but an apish or fantastic strain, it is his humour. Well, I will scourge those apes, and to these courteous eyes oppose a mirror, as large as is the stage whereon we act, where they shall see the time's deformity unanomised in every nerve and sinew, with constant courage and contempt of fear. Asper, I urge it is your friend, take heed, the days are dangerous, full of exception, and men are grown impatient of reproof. Ha-ha! You might as well have told me yonder's heaven. This earth, these men, in all had moved alike. Do not I know the time's condition? Yes, Midas, and their souls, and who they be, that either will or can accept against me? None, but a sort of fools, so sick in taste, that they can tem all physics of the mind. And like galled camels, kick at every touch. Good men, in virtuous spirits, that low their vices will cherish my free labours, love my lines, and with the fervour of their shining grace, make my brain fruitful, to bring forth more objects, worthy their serious and intentive eyes. But why enforce I this? As fainting? No. If any hear chance to behold himself, let him not dare to challenge me of wrong. For, if he shame to have his follies known, first he should shame to act him. My strict hand was made to seize on vice, and with a gripe squeeze out the humour of such spongy souls. As lick up every idle vanity. Why, this is right, furore poeticus. Kind gentlemen, we hope your patience will yet conceive the best, or entertain the supposition that a madman speaks. What? Are you ready there, me to sit down, in my cordatus, sound hoe and begin? I leave you two as censors to sit here. Observe what I present, and liberally speak your opinions upon every scene, as it shall pass the view of these spectators. Nay. Now, yar tedious, sirs, for shame begin, and meanest note me. If in all this front you can aspire a gallant of this mark, who, to be thought one of the judicious, sits with his arms thus wreathed, his hat pulled here, cries mew and nods, then shakes his empty head, who will show more several motions in his face than the new London, Rome, or Nineveh. And now and then breaks a dry biscuit jest, which, that it may more easily be chewed, he steeps in his own laughter. Why, will that make it be sooner swallowed? Oh, assure you, or if it did not, yet his horse sings, mean kates are welcome still to hungry guests. Tis true. But why should we observe them, asper? Oh, I would know them, for in such assemblies they are more infectious than the pestilence. Therefore I would give them pills to purge, make them fit, prefer societies. How monstrous and detested it is to see a fellow that has neither art nor brain sit like an aristarchus or starked ass, taking men's lines with a tobacco face and snuff still spitting, using his wright looks in nature of a vice, to rest and turn the good aspect of those that shall sit near him, from what they do behold. Oh, tis most vile. Nay, asper. Peace, Mides. I do know your thought. You'll say your guest here will accept it this. Pish, you are too timorous and full of doubt. Then he, a patient shall reject all physic, because the physician tells him you are sick. For, if I say that he is vicious, you will not hear a virtue. Come, you are fond. Shall I be so extravagant to think that happy judgments and composed spirits will challenge me for taxing such as these? I am ashamed. Nay, but good, pardon us. We must not bear this peremptory sale, but to use our best endeavours how to please. Why, therein I commend your careful thoughts, and I will mix with you in industry, to please, but whom? Attentive auditors, such as will join their profit with their pleasure and come to feed their understanding parts. For these I'll prodigally spread myself, and speak away my spirit into air. For these I'll melt my brain into invention, coin new conceits, and hang my richest words as polished jewels in their bounteous ears. But stay, I lose myself, and wrong their patience. If I dwell here, they'll not begin, I see. Friends, sit you still, and entertain this troupe with some familiar and by-conference. I'll has them sound. Now, gentlemen, I go to turn an actor and a humorist, where ere I do resume my present person, we hope to make the circles of your eyes low with distilled laughter. If we fail, we must impute it to this only chance, art hath an enemy called ignorance. Exit. How do you like his spirit, Midas? I should like it much better if he were less confident. Why, do you suspect his merit? No, but I fear this will procure him much envy. Oh, that sets the strongest seal on his desert. If he had no enemies, I should esteem his fortune's most ratchet at this instant. You have seen his play, Cordenatus. Pray you, how is it? Faith, sir. I must refrain to judge. Only this I can say of it. Distraint, and of a particular kind by itself, somewhat like Vettis Commodia. A work that hath bountiously pleased me. How it will answer the general expectation, I know not. Does he observe all the laws of comedy in it? What laws mean you? Why, the equivision of it interacts and scenes according to the Turincian manner, his true number of actors, the furnishing of a scene with Grexel Chorus, and that the whole argument fall within the compass of a day's business. No, no. These are two nice observations. They are such as must be received by your favour, or it cannot be authentic. Troth, I can discern no such necessity. No. No, I assure you, senor. If those laws you speak have had been delivered us, Abinatio, and in their present virtue and perfection, there had been some reason of obeying their powers. But his extant, that that which we call Commodia, was at first nothing but a simple and continued song, sung by one only person, till Cisario invented a second. After him, Epicama's a third, Formus and Coyonides devised to have four actors, with a prologue and Chorus, to which Cratonus, long after, added a fifth and sixth. Eupolis more, Aristophanes more than they, every man in the dignity of a spirit and judgment supplied something. And though that in him this kind of home appeared absolute and fully perfect, yet how is the face of it changed since? In Menander, Philemon, Cicilius, Plautus, and the rest, who have utterly excluded the Chorus, altered the property of the persons, their names and natures, and augmented it with all liberty, according to the elegancy and disposition of those times wherein they wrote. I see not then, but we should enjoy the same license, or free power, to illustrate and heighten our invention, as they did, and not be tied to those strict and regular forms which the niceness of a few, who are nothing but form, were thrust upon us. Well, we will not dispute of this now, but what's his scene? Murray, Insular Fortunata, sir. Oh, the Fortuna Isle. Mass, he has bound himself to a strict law there. Why so? He cannot lightly alter the scene without crossing the seas. He needs not, having a whole island to run through, I think. No. How comes it then, that in some one play, we see so many seas, countries and kingdoms, passed over with such admirable dexterity? Oh, that but shows how well the authors can travel in their vocation, and out to run the apprehension of their auditory. But, leaving this, I would they would begin at once. This protraction is able to sour the best settled patience in the theatre. The third sounding. They have answered your wish, sir. They sound. No. Here comes the prologue. Enter prologue. Now, sir, if you had stayed a little longer, I meant to have spurt your prologue for you in faith. Murray, with all my heart, sir, you shall do it yet, and I thank you. Going. Nay, nay, stay, stay. Here you. You could not have studied to have done me a greater benefit at the instant. For I protest to you. I am imperfect, and had I spoke it, I must of necessity have been out. Why, but do you speak this seriously? Seriously. I, with my help, do I, and esteem myself indebted to your kindness for it. For what? Why, for undertaking the prologue for me. How did I undertake it for you? Did you? I appeal to all these gentlemen, whether you did or no. Come, come. It pleases you to cast a strange look onto now, but will not serve. For me, but I must serve, and therefore speak your prologue. And I do. Let me die poisoned with some venomous hiss, and never live to look as high as the two penny room again. Exit. He has put you to it, sir. Stuth. What a humorous fellow is this. Gentlemen, good faith I can speak no prologue. Howsoever his weak wit has had the fortune to make this strong use of me here before you. But I protest. Enter Carlobaphone, followed by a boy with wine. Come, come. Leave these fustian protestations away. Come, I cannot abide these gray-headed ceremonies. Boy, fetch me a glass quickly. I may bid these gentlemen welcome. Give them a heath here. Exit, boy. I'm Marl, whose wit it was to put a prologue in your sack but's mouth. They might well think you'd be out of tune, and yet you'd play up on him, too. Hang him, dull block. Oh, good words, good words. A well-timbered fellow. He would have made a good column on he had been thought on when the house was a building. Re-enter, boy, with glasses. Oh, art thou calm, well said. Give me, boy, filled soar. Here is a cup of wine sparkles like a diamond. Gentle woman, I am sworn to put them in first. And, gentlemen, around in place of a bad prologue, I drink this good draught to your health here, canary. The very elixir inspirative wine. Drinks. Ah, this is that poet called Castilian Licker, when he comes abroad now and then, once in a fortnight, and makes a good meal among players, where he is caninum appetitum. Mary, at home he keeps a good philosophical diet. Beans and buttermilk. An honest pure rogue. He will dig you off three, four, five of these, one after another, and look villainously when he is done like a one-headed serb. He does not hear me, I hope. And when, when his belly is well balanced, and his brain rigged a little, he snares away with all, as though he would work wonderless when he comes home. He has made a play here, and he calls it every man out of his humour. But any get me out of the humour he has put me, and I'll trust none of his tribe again on I live. Gents, all I can say for him is, you are welcome. I could wish my bottle here amongst you, but there is an old rule. No pledging your own health. Mary, if any he'll be thirsty for it, their best way that I know is, sit still, steal up their lips, and drink so much of the play in at their ears. Exit. What may this fellow be called Datus? Faith, if the time will suffer his description, I'll give it to you. He is one. The author calls him Carlo Buffone. An impudent common jester, a violent ruler, and an incomprehensible epicure. One whose company is desired of all men, but beloved of none. He will soon all lose his soul then adjust, and profane even the most holy things, to excite laughter. No honourable all-reverent personage whatsoever can come within the reach of his eye, but has turned into all manner of variety by his adulterate similes. You paint forth a monster. He will prefer all countries before his native, and thinks he can never sufficiently, or with admiration enough, deliver his affectionate conceit of foreign, atheistical policies. But stay. Enter Macalente. Observe these. He'll appear himself and on. Oh, this is your envious man, Macalente, I think. The same, sir. Act one. Scene one. The country. Enter Macalente with a book. Veri est, afortuny cachetetem bacile veri. It is true, but stoic, where, in the vast world, doth that man breathe, that can so much command his blood and his affection. Well, I see I strive in vain to cure my wounded soul, for every cordial that my thought supply turns to a corsive and doth eat it farther. There is no taste in this philosophy. It is like a potion that a man should drink, but turns his stomach with the sight of it. I am no such pilled cynic to believe that Vegery is the only happiness, or with the number of these patient fools to sing, my mind to me a kingdom is. When the length hungry belly barks for food, I look into the world, and there I meet with objects that do strike my bloodshot eyes into my brain. Where, when I view myself, having before observed this man is great, mighty and feared, that loved and highly favored, a third thought wise and learned, a fourth rich and therefore honored, a fifth rarely featured, a sixth admired for his ineptual fortunes. When I see these, I say, and view myself, I wish the organs of my sight were cracked. And that the engine of my grief could cast mine eyeballs like two globes of wildfire forth to melt this unproportioned frame of nature. Oh, they are thoughts that have transfixed my heart. And often, in the strength of apprehension, made my cold passion stand upon my face like drops of dew on a stiff cake of ice. This alludes well to that of the poet. Envides suspirat, gamet, in cotit coedentes, sudat frigidus, in two ends quod audit. Oh, peace, you break the scene. Enter Stagliardo and Carlo Bafone. Soft, who be these? I'll lay me down a while till they be passed. Lies down. Signor, not this gallant, I pray you. What is he? A tame rook. You'll take him presently. List. Nay, look you, Carlo. This is my humor now. I have land and money. My friends let me well, and I will be a gentleman whatsoever it costs me. Amongst gentlemen like resolution. Tot. And I take in humor of a thing once. I am like your tailor's needle. I go through. But, for my name's in your, how think you? Will it not serve for a gentleman's name when the senor is put to it hot? Let me hear. How is it? Senor in soso sagliardo. Me thinks it sounds well. Oh, excellent. Tot, and I'll fit it to your name. You might very well stand for a gentleman. I know many sagliardos, gentlemen. Why? And for my wealth I might be a justice of peace. And a constable for your wit. All this is my lordship, you see, and those farms you came by. Good steps to gentility, too, Mary. But, sagliardo, if you effect to be a gentleman indeed, you must observe all the rare qualities, humours, and compliments of a gentleman. I know it, senor. And if you please to instruct, I'm not too good to learn, all usher you. Enough, sir. Aside. I'll make admirable use in the projection of my medicine upon this lump of copper here. I'll be thank me for you, sir. Senor, I will both pay you and pray you, and thank you and think on you. Is this not purely good? Splurred. Why should such a prick-eared hinders this be rich? Huh? A fool? Such a transparent gull that may be seen through. Wherefore should he have land, houses, and lordships? I could eat my entrails, and sink my soul into the earth with sorrow. First, to be an accomplished gentleman, that is, a gentleman of the time, you must give over housekeeping in the country, and live all together in this city amongst galons, where, at your first appearance, to your good you turned four or five hundred acres of your best land into two or three trunks of a barrel. You may do it without going to a conjurer, and be sure you mix yourself still, with such as flourish in the spring of the fashion, and are least popular. Study their carriage and behaviour in all. Learn to play at primarial and passage, and ever, when you lose, have two or three peculiar owls to swear by, that no man else swears. But, above all, protest in your play, and affirm upon your credit, as you are a true gentleman, at every cast, you may do it with a safe conscience, I warrant you. O admirable rare, he cannot choose, but be a gentleman, that has these excellent gifts. More, more I beseech you. You must endeavor to feed cleanly at your ordinary, sit melancholy, and pick your teeth when you cannot speak. And when you come to plays, be humorous, look with a good, starred face, and ruffle your brow like a new boot. Laugh at nothing but your own jests, or else as did nobleman laugh. That is special grace you must observe. I warrant you, sir. I, and sit on the stage and flout, provided you have a good suit. Oh, I'll have a suit, only for that, sir. You must talk much of your kindred and allies. Lies! No, senor, I shall not need to do so. I have kindred in the city to talk of. I have a niece, is a merchant's wife, and a nephew, my brother's son of the Inns of Court. Ah! But you must pretend the lines of courtiers and great persons. And ever when you are to dine or sup in any strange presence, hire a fellow with a great chain, though it be copper, it's no matter, to bring you letters, feigned from such a nobleman or such a knight or such a lady, to their firstful, right-rare, nobly qualified friend and kinsman, senor in sulso sugardo. Give yourself style enough. And there, while you intend circumstances of news or inquiry of the health or so, one of your familiars whom you must carry about you still breaks it up as twir in a jest, and reads it publicly at the table, and which you must seem to take as unpardonable offence, as if yet torn your mistress's collars, or breathed upon their picture, and pursue it with that hot grace, as if you would advance a challenge upon it presently. Stay! I do not like that humour of challenge. It may be accepted, but I'll tell you what's my humour now. I will do this. I will take occasion of sending one of my suits to the tailors, to have the pocket repaired, or so. And there such a litter, as you talk of, broke opened, and all shall be left. Oh, the tailor will presently give out what I am, upon the reading of it, worth twenty of your gallons. But then you must put on an extreme face of discontentment at your man's negligence. Oh, so I will, and beat him too. I'll have a man for the purpose. You may. You have land and crumbs, a partial fate. Now, well, remember, you must keep your men galonde at the first. Fine pied livery is laid with good gold lace. There is no loss in it. They may rip it off and pawn it on their lack of idles. By lady, that is chargeable, senor, to bring a man in debt. Debt? Why, that's the more for your credit, sir. It's an excellent policy to owe much in these days, if you know it. As how, good senior, I would vain be a politician. Oh, look where you are in debt at any great sum. Your creditor observes you with no less regard, than if he were bound to you for some huge benefit, and will quake to give you the least cause of affids, lest he lose his money. I assure you, in these times no man has his servant, more obsequious and blind, than gentlemen their creditors. To whom, if at any time you pay but a moiety, or a fourth part, it comes more acceptably, than if you gave them a new year's gift. I perceive you, sir. I will take up and bring myself in credit, sure. Marry these. Always beware your commerce, not with bankrupts, or poor, needy Lugatians. They are impudent creatures, turbulent spirits. They cannot ought to violent tragedies they stir, nor how they play fast, and loose with their poor gentlemen's fortunes, to get their own. Marry these rich fellows that have the world, or the better part of it, sleeping in their counting-houses. They are ten times more placable than they. Either fear, hope, or modesty restrains them from offering any outrages. But this is nothing to your followers. You shall not run up any more in a rearage for them, and you list yourself. No. How should I keep them, then? Keep them, sir Blut. Let them keep themselves. They are no sheep, are they? But you shall come in houses where plate, apparel, jewels, and diverse other pretty commodities lie negligently scattered, and I would of those mercaries follow me, I trough, should remember they had not their fingers for nothing. That's not so good, me thinks. Why, after you have kept them a fortnight or so, and showed them enough to the world, you may turn them away and keep no more but a boy. It's enough. Nay, my humour is not for boys. I'll keep men, and I keep any, and I'll give coats. That's my humour. But I lack a cullison. Why, now you ride to the city, you may buy one. I'll bring you where you shall have your choice for money. Can you, sir? Oh, aye, you shall have one big measure of you, and make your coat of arms to fit you of what fashion you will. By word of mouth, I thank you, senor. I'll be once a little prodigal in a humour. Aye, faith, and have a most prodigious coat. Torment, and death, rick-head and brain, at once. To be delivered of your fighting issue. Who can endure to see blind fortune doth thus? To be enamoured on this dusty turf, this clawed-a-horsen pock-fist. Oh, God, I could run wild with grief now to behold the rank-ness of her bounties. That doth breed such bull-rushes, these mushroom-gentlemen that shoot up in a night to place and worship. Carlo, seen Macalenti. Let him alone, some stray, some stray. Nay, I will examine him before I go, sure. The lord of the soil has all wefts and strays here, has he not? Yes, sir. Carlo aside. Faith, then, I bese the poor fellow. He's fallen into a fool's hands. Serah, who gave you a commission to lie in my lordship? Your lordship? How, my lordship? Do you know me, sir? I do know you, sir. Carlo aside. He answers him like an echo. Why, who am I, sir? One of those that fortune favours. Carlo aside. The pearly thrices of a fool. I'd observe this better. That fortune favours. How mean you that, friend. I mean simply that you are one that lives not by your wits. By my wits? No, sir. I scorn to live by my wits. I have better means, I tell thee, than to take such base courses as to live by my wits. What does thou think I will live by my wits? Me think, stressor, you should not relish this well. Ha, does he know me? Though yours be the worst, you some man can put his wit to, of thousands to prostitute it at every tavern and ordinary. Yet, me think, you should have turned your broadside at this, and have been ready with an apology, able to sink this hulk of ignorance into the bottom and depth of his contempt. Ah, to his machalente. Señor, you are well encountered. How is it? Aside to Macalente. I must not regard what he says, man, a troubler, shallow fool, he has no more brain than a butterfly, a mere stuffed suit. He looks like a musty bottle new wicked, his head's the cork, light, light. I am glad to see you so well returned, señor. You are a Grammarcy, good James. Is he one of your acquaintance? I love him the better for that. Oh, it's precious. Come away, man. What do you mean? And you knew him as I do. You'd shun him as you would do the plague. Why, sir? Oh, he's a black fellow. Take heed of him. Is he a scholar or a soldier? Both, both. A lean mongrel. He looks as if he were a chop fallen, with barking at other men's good fortunes. Wear how you offend him. He carries oil and fire in his pen, with a scarred wear it drops. His spirit is like powder, quick, violent. He'll blow a man up with a gist. I fear him worse than a rotten wall as a cannon, shaken out after the report. Away, come not near him. For God's sake, let's be gone. And he be a scholar. You know, I cannot abide him. I had, as Lee, see a cockatrice, especially as cockatrices go now. What? You stay, senor. This gentleman, Sodiardo, and I, are to visit the Night Puntervolo, and from thence to the city, we shall meet there. Exit with Sugliardo. Aye. When I cannot shun you, we will meet. Too strange. Of all the creatures I have seen, I envy not this bufane, for indeed neither his fortunes nor his parts deserve it. But I do hate him, as I hate the devil, or that brass visage to monster barbarism. Oh, it is an open, throated, black-mouthed cur that bites it all, but eats on those that feed him. A slave, that to your face will serpent-like, creep on the ground as he would eat the dust, and to your back will turn the tail, and sting more deadly than the scorpion. Stay, who's this? Now, for my soul, another minion of the old lady chances, unobserve him. Enter Sordido with an almanac in his hand. O rare, good, good, good, good. I thank my stars, I thank my stars for it. Macalenti, aside. Said I not true. Does not his passion speak out of my divination? Oh, my senses. Why, last you not your powers, and become doled, if not deaded, with this spectacle. I know him. It is Sordido, the farmer. A bore, and brother to that swine was here. Excellent, excellent, excellent. As I would wish, as I would wish. See how the strumpet fortune tickles him, and makes him swoon with laughter. Ho, ho, ho. Ha, ha, ha, ha. I will not sow my grounds this year. Let me see what harvest shall we have. June, July? What? Is the prognostication wraps him so? The twentieth, twenty-first, twenty-second days. Rain and wind. Oh, good, good. The twenty-third and the twenty-fourth. Rain and some wind. Good. The twenty-fifth. Rain. Good still. Twenty-six, twenty-seventh, twenty-eighth. Wind and some rain. Where it had been rain and some wind. Well, it is good when it can be no better. Twenty-ninth, inclining terrain. Inclining terrain. That's not so good now. Thirty-thin-thirty-first, wind and no rain. No rain. Slid stay, this is worse and worse. What says he of St. Swithins? Turn back, look, St. Swithins. No rain. Oh, here's a precious dirty damned rogue, that bats himself with expectation of rotten weather, and unseasoned hours, and he is rich for it, an elder brother. His barns are full, his bricks and mows well trod, his garners crack with store. Tis well, ha-ha-ha. A plague consumed me and my house. Oh, here, St. Swithins the fifteenth day, variable weather for the most part rain. Good, for the most part rain. Why, it should rain forty days after, now, more or less. It was a rule held, before I was able to hold a plow, and yet here are two days no rain. Ha, it makes me muse. We'll see how the next month begins, if that be better. August 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th days. Rain and blustering, this is well now. Fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, and ninth. Rainy, with some thunder. Ah, Mary, this is excellent. The other was false printed, sure. The tenth and eleventh great store of rain. Oh, good, good, good. The twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth days. Rain. Good still. Fifteenth and sixteenth. Rain. Good still. Seventeenth and eighteenth rain. Good still. Nineteenth and twentieth. Good still. Good still. Good still. Good still. Good still. Twenty-first. Some rain. Some rain. Well, we must be patient and attend the heaven's pleasure. Would it were more, though? The twenty-second, twenty-third great tempest of rain. Thunder and lightning. Oh, good again. Past expectation good. I thank my blessed angel. Never, never laid I a penny better out than this. To purchase this dear book. Not dear for price, and yet of me as dearly prized as life. Since in it is contained the very life, blood, strength, and sin years of my happiness. Blessed be the hour wherein I bought this book. His study's happy that composed the book, and the man fortunate that sold the book. Sleep with this charm, and be as true to me, as I am joyed and confident in thee. Put it up. Enter a hind, and give Sordito a paper to read. Is this not good? Is not pleasing this? Ah, God pardon me, is it possible that such a spacious villain should live and not be plagued? Or lies be hid within the wrinkled bosom of the world where heaven cannot see him? So blood, he thinks, to his rare and strange that he should breathe and walk, feed with digestion, sleep, enjoy his health, and, like a boisterous wail, swallowing the poor, shall swim in wealth and pleasure. It's not strange, unless his house and skin were thunder-proof, I wonder at it. He thinks now, the hectic gout, leprosy, or some such loathed disease might light upon him. Of that fire from heaven might fall upon his bones, or mice and rats eat up his grain, or else that it might rot within the hoi ricks, even as it stands. He thinks this might be well, and after all, the devil might come and fetch him. It is true. Meantime, he surfits on prosperity, and thou, in envy of him, gnawest thyself. Peaceful. Get hence, until thy vexed spirit, wealth in this age will scarcely look on merit. Rises and exit. Who brought this same, sir? Mary, sir, one of the justice's men. He says, tis a precept, and all their hands be at it. I and the prince of them stick in my flesh, deeper than in their letters. They have sent me pills wrapped in paper here, that should I take them would poison all the sweetness of my book, and turn my honey into hemlock juice. But I am wiser than to serve their precepts, or follow their prescriptions. Here's a device to charge me bring my grain unto the markets. I much, when I have neither barn nor garner nor earth to hit it in, I'll bring it. Till then, each corn I send shall be as big as Paul's. Oh, but some say the poor like to starve, well, let them starve, what's that to me? Are bees bound to keep life in drones and idle moths? No. Why such are these that turn thyselfs to poor, only because they would be pitted, but are indeed a sort of lazy beggars, licentious rogues and sturdy vagabonds, read by the sloth of a fat plenteous year, like snakes in heat of summer out of dung. And this is all these cheap times are good for, whereas a wholesome and pinuous dearth purges the soil of such vile excrements and kills the vipers up. Oh, but master, take heed they hear you not. Why so? They will exclaim against you. Aye, their exclaims move me as much as their breath moves a mountain. Poor worms they hiss at me whilst I, at home, can be contented to applaud myself to sit and clap my hands, and laugh and leap, knocking my head against my roof with joy, to see how plump my bags are and my barns. Sir, go high you home and bid your fellows, get all their flails ready again, I come. I will, sir. Exit. I'll instantly set all my hinds to thrashing of a whole rick of corn which I will hide under the ground, and with the straw thereof I'll stuff the outsides of my other mose. That done I'll have them empty all my garners, and in the friendly earth bury my store, that when the searchers come they may suppose all spent, and that my fortunes were belied, and to lend more opinion to my want, and stop that mini-mouth vulgar dog which else would still be baying at my door. Each market-day I will be seen to buy part of the purest wheat, as for my household. When it comes it shall increase my heaps, to yield me treble gain at this dear time. Promised in this dear book I have cast all till then I will not sell an ear. I'll hang first, oh I shall make my prices as I list. My house and I can feed on peas and barley. What though a world of wretches star of the wild, he that will thrive must think no course is vile. Exit. Now, senor, how I prove you this? Have the humorists expressed to themselves truly, or no? Yes, if it be well prosecuted, it is hitherto happy enough. But me thinks Macalente went hence too soon. He might have been made to stay, and speak somewhat in reproof of Sordido's wretchedness now at the last. Oh no, that had been extremely improper. Besides, he had continued the scene too long with him, as twas being in no more action. You may enforce the length as a necessary reason, but for propriety the scene would very well have borne it in my judgement. Oh, worst of both. Why, you mistake us humor utterly then. How do I mistake it? Is it not Envy? Yes, but you must understand, senor. He envies him not as he is a villain, a wolf in the commonwealth, but as he is rich and fortunate. For the true condition of Envy is, Dolor Elenie felicitatus, to have our eyes continually fixed upon another man's prosperity, that is, his chief happiness, and to grieve at that. Whereas, if we make his monstrous and abhorred actions our object, the grief we take then comes nearer the nature of hate than Envy, as being bred out of a kind of contempt and loathing in ourselves. So you'll infer it had been hate, not Envy in him, to reprehend the humour of Sordido. Right, for what a man truly envies in another, he could always love and cherish in himself. But no man truly reprehends in another what he loves in himself. Therefore, reprehension is out of his hate. And this distinction hath he himself made in a speech there, if you marked it, where he says, I envy not this buffoon, but I hate him. Stay, sir. I envy not this buffoon, but I hate him. Why might he not as well have hated Sordido as him? No, sir. There was subject for his envy in Sordido, his wealth. So was there not in the other. He stood possessed of no one eminent gift, but a most odious and fiendlike disposition, that would turn charity itself into hate. Much more envy for the present. You have satisfied me, sir. Oh, here comes the fool, and the jester again, me thinks. To a pity they should be parted, sir. What bright shining gallant that with them? The night they went to? No, sir. This is one once your fastidious brisk, otherwise called the fresh, french-fired courtier. A humorist, too. As humorous as Quicksilver, do but observe him. The scene is the country, still, remember? End of Act One.