Cler. Lest they should forget?

True. Yes: There was never poor captain took more pains at a muster to shew men, than he, at this meal, to shew friends.

Daw. It is his quarter-feast, sir.

Cler. What do you say so, sir John?

True. Nay, Jack Daw will not be out, at the best friends he has, to the talent of his wit: Where's his mistress, to hear and applaud him? is she gone?

Daw. Is mistress Epicone gone?

Cler. Gone afore, with sir Dauphine, I warrant, to the place.

True. Gone afore! that were a manifest injury, a disgrace and a half; to refuse him at such a festival-time as this, being a bravery, and a wit

too!

Cler. Tut, he'll swallow it like cream: he's better read in Jure civili, than to esteem any thing a disgrace, is offer'd him from a mistress.

Daw. Nay, let her e'en go; she shall sit alone, and be dumb in her chamber a week together, for John Daw, I warrant her. Does she refuse me?

Cler. No, sir, do not take it so to heart; she does not refuse you, but a little neglects you. Good faith, Truewit, you were to blame, to put it into his head, that she does refuse him.

True. Sir, she does refuse him palpably, however you mince it. An I were as he, I would swear to speak ne'er a word to her to-day for't. Daw. By this light, no more I will not. True. Nor to any body else, sir.

Daw. Nay, I will not say so, gentlemen. Cler. It had been an excellent happy condition for the company, if you could have drawn him

to it.

[Aside.

Daw. I'll be very melancholy, i'faith.

Cler. As a dog, if I were as you, sir John. True. Or a snail, or a hog-louse: I would roll myself up for this day; in troth, they should not unwind me.

Daw. By this pick-tooth, so I will.

Cler. 'Tis well done: he begins already to be angry with his teeth.

Daw. Will you go, gentlemen?

Cler. Nay, you must walk alone, if you be right melancholy, sir John.

True. Yes, sir, we'll dog you, we'll follow you afar off. [Exit Daw. Cler. Was there ever such a two yards of knighthood measured out by time, to be sold to laughter?

2

True. A mere talking mole, hang him! no mushroom was ever so fresh. A fellow so utterly nothing, as he knows not what he would be.

Cler. Let's follow him: but first let's go to Dauphine, he's hovering about the house to hear what news.

True. Content.

[Exeunt.

2 No mushroom was ever so fresh.] Taken, as Upton observes, from Plautus:

-Jam nihil sapit,

Nec sentit; tanti 'st, quanti est fungus putidus.”

Mole, Upton "corrects" (why, it is impossible to guess) into mule. Animal for animal, the former was surely best adapted to represent the imbecility of this purblind knight.

SCENE III.

A Room in Morose's House.

Enter MOROSE and MUTE, followed by CTBEARD with EPICENE.

Mor. Welcome, Cutbeard! draw near with your fair charge: and in her ear softly entreat her to unmask [Epi. takes off her mask.]-So! Is the door shut? [Mute makes a leg.]-Enough. Now, Cutbeard, with the same discipline I use to my family, I will question you. As I conceive, Cutbeard, this gentlewoman is she you have provided, and brought, in hope she will fit me in the place and person of a wife? Answer me not but with your leg, unless it be otherwise: [Cut. makes a leg.]-Very well done, Cutbeard. I conceive besides, Cutbeard, you have been pre-acquainted with her birth, education, and qualities, or else you would not prefer her to my acceptance, in the weighty consequence of marriage. [makes a leg.]-This I conceive, Cutbeard. Answer me not but with your leg, unless it be otherwise. [bows again.]-Very well done, Cutbeard. Give aside now a little, and leave me to examine her condition, and aptitude to my affection. [goes about her and views her.]-She is exceeding fair, and of a special good favour; a sweet composition or harmony of limbs; her temper of beauty has the true height of my blood. The knave hath exceedingly well fitted me without: I will now try her within.-Come near, fair gentlewoman; let not my behaviour seem rude, though unto you, being rare, it may haply appear strange.

[Epicane curtsies.]-Nay, lady, you may speak, though Cutbeard and my man might not; for of all sounds, only the sweet voice of a fair lady has the just length of mine ears. I beseech you, say, lady; out of the first fire of meeting eyes, they say, love is stricken: do you feel any such motion suddenly shot into you, from any part you see in me? ha, lady? [Epi. curtsies.]—Alas, lady, these answers by silent curtsies from you, are too courtless and simple. I have ever had my breeding in court; and she that shall be my wife, must be accomplished with courtly and audacious ornaments. Can you speak, lady? Epi. [softly.] Judge you, forsooth.

Mor. What say you, lady? Speak out, I beseech you.

Epi. Judge you, forsooth.

Mor. On my judgment, a divine softness! But can you naturally, lady, as I enjoin these by doctrine and industry, refer yourself to the search of my judgment, and, not taking pleasure in your tongue, which is a woman's chiefest pleasure, think it plausible to answer me by silent gestures, so long as my speeches jump right with what you conceive? [Epi. curtsies.]-Excellent! divine! if it were possible she should hold out thus!-Peace, Cutbeard, thou art made for ever, as thou hast made me, if this felicity have lasting: but I will try her further. Dear lady, I am courtly, I tell you, and I must have mine ears banquetted with pleasant and witty conferences, pretty girds, scoff's, and dalliance in her that I

3 With courtly and audacious ornaments.] i. e. liberal, spirited.. Audacious was not always used by our old writers in a bad sense. In Love's Labour Lost, we have," Witty without affec tation, audacious without impudency." One of the characters in the Utopia is, I think, named Eutolmos.

mean to choose for my bed-phere. The ladies in court think it a most desperate impair to their quickness of wit, and good carriage, if they cannot give occasion for a man to court 'em; and when an amorous discourse is set on foot, minister as good matter to continue it, as himself: And do you alone so much differ from all them, that what they, with so much circumstance, affect and toil for, to seem learn'd, to seem judicious, to seem sharp and conceited, you can bury in yourself with silence, and rather trust your graces to the fair conscience of virtue, than to the world's or your own proclamation?

Epi. [softly.] I should be sorry else.

Mor. What say you, lady? good lady, speak

out.

Epi. I should be sorry else.

Mor. That sorrow doth fill me with gladness. O Morose, thou art happy above mankind! pray that thou mayst contain thyself. I will only put her to it once more, and it shall be with the utmost touch and test of their sex. But hear me,

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4 I must have mine ears banquetted with pleasant and witty conferences, pretty girds, scoffs, and dalliance in her I choose for my bed-phere.] Very elegantly expressed from Plato, de repub. ἔσιασας λόγων καλῶν Hence Cicero, Cogitationum bonarum epula -Discendi epulas. For bed-phere, we must read bedfere, i. e. bed-companion. So fere is used in our old poets: the word we had from the Danes."

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is

These are Upton's remarks, on which it is only necessary to say that phere is quite as common in our old poets as fere, and that it comes to us from the Saxons. Gird," " he adds, 66 derived from the Greek yupos ;" and, indeed, it has one resemblance which our etymologists sometimes overlook, it begins with the same letter: but gird (and I mention it for the sake of the commentators) is a mere metathesis of gride, and means a thrust, a blow; the metaphorical use of the word for a smart stroke of wit, taunt, reproachful retort, &c. is justified by a similar application of kindred terms in all languages.