Laid I [a] penny better out'1 than this,
To purchase this dear book: not dear for price,
And yet of me as dearly prized as life,
Since in it is contain'd the very life,

Blood, strength, and sinews of my happiness.
Blest be the hour wherein I bought this book ;
His studies 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 joy'd and confident in thee.

[Puts it up.

Enter a Hind, and gives SORDIDO a paper to read.
Mac. Ha, ha, ha!

Is not this good? Is it not pleasing this?
Ha, ha, ha! God pardon me! ha, ha!

Is't possible that such a spacious villain
Should live, and not be plagued? or lies he hid
Within the wrinkled bosom of the world,
Where Heaven cannot see him? S'blood! methinks

Laid I [a] penny out, &c.] We must not be surprised at the confidence which Sordido reposes in his almanack, as persons in his station of life are to be found, even now, superstitiously attentive to its predictions. The ancient almanacks, too, possessed higher claims to respect, than those of our days, since besides certain assurance of the downfall of the Pope, and every potentate with whom we might happen to be at war, circumstances common to both, they contained lists of the days favourable for buying and selling :-matters of high import to the Sordidos of all ages. What appears somewhat extraordinary, is the cheapness of this miraculous information: Sordido purchases it at a penny, and that this was not below the stated price, appears from other authorities. Thus Beaumont and Fletcher :

'Tis rare, and strange, that he should breathe and

walk,

Feed with digestion, sleep, enjoy his health,

And, like a boisterous whale swallowing the poor,
Still swim in wealth and pleasure! is't not strange?
Unless his house and skin were thunder-proof,

I wonder at it! Methinks, now, the hectic,
Gout, leprosy, or some such loath'd disease,
Might light upon him; or that fire from heaven
Might fall
upon his barns; or mice and rats

Ay, 'tis true!

Eat up his grain; or else that it might rot
Within the hoary ricks, even as it stands:
Methinks this might be well; and after all
The devil might come and fetch him.
Meantime he surfeits in prosperity,
And thou, in envy of him, gnaw'st thyself:
Peace, fool, get hence, and tell thy vexed spirit,
Wealth in this age will scarcely look on merit.
[Rises and exit.

Sord. Who brought this same, sirrah? Hind. Marry, sir, one of the justice's men; 'tis a precept, and all their hands be at it.

he says

Sord. Ay, and the prints of them stick in my flesh, Deeper than in their letters: they have sent me Pills wrapt 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: Ay, much!' when I have neither barn nor garner, Nor earth to hide it in, I'll bring 't; till then, Each corn I send shall be as big as Paul's. O, but (say some) the poor are like to starve. Why, let 'em starve, what's that to me? are bees

2

Ay, much!] i. e. by no means; not at all. See vol. i. p. 111.

Bound to keep life in drones and idle moths? no:
Why such are these that term themselves the poor,
Only because they would be pitied,

But are indeed a sort of lazy beggars,
Licentious rogues, and sturdy vagabonds,
Bred by the sloth of a fat plenteous year,
Like snakes in heat of summer, out of dung;

And this is all that these cheap times are good for :
Whereas a wholesome and penurious dearth

Purges the soil of such vile excrements,

And kills the vipers up.3

Hind. O, but master,

Take heed they hear you not.

Sord. Why so?

Hind. They will exclaim against you.

Sord. Ay, their exclaims

Move me as much, as thy 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.
Sirrah, go hie you home, and bid your fellows
Get all their flails ready again I come.

Hind. I will, sir.

[Exit.

Sord. 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 mows:

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

3 And kills the vipers up.] See vol. i. p. 115.

4 Poor worms, they hiss at me, whilst I at home, &c.] Taken from Horace, but heightened and improved :

All's spent, and that my fortunes were belied.
And to lend more opinion to my want,
And stop that many-mouthed 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;
Where when it comes, it shall increase my heaps :
'Twill 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.
O, I shall make my prices as I list;
My house and I can feed on peas and barley.
What though a world of wretches starve the while;
He that will thrive must think no courses vile.

[Exit. Cor. Now, signior, how approve you this? have the humourists exprest themselves truly or no?

Mit. Yes, if it be well prosecuted, 'tis hitherto happy enough: but methinks Macilente went hence too soon; he might have been made to stay, and speak somewhat in reproof of Sordido's wretchedness now at the last.

Cor. O, no, that had been extremely improper; besides, he had continued the scene too long with him, as 'twas, being in no more action.

Mit. You may inforce the length as a necessary reason; but for propriety, the scene would very well have borne it, in my judgment.

Cor. O, worst of both; why, you mistake his humour utterly then.

Mit. How do I mistake it? Is it not Envy?

Cor. Yes, but you must understand, signior, 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 alienæ felicitatis, 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 abhorr'd actions our ob

ject, 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.

Mit. So you'll infer it had been hate, not envy in him, to reprehend the humour of Sordido?

Cor. 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 Buffone, but I hate him.

Mit. Stay, sir: I envy not this Buffone, but I hate him. Why might he not as well have hated Sordido as him?

Cor. No, sir, there was subject for his envy in Sordido, his wealth: so was there not in the other. He stood possest of no one eminent gift, but a most odious and fiend-like disposition, that would turn charity itself into hate, much more envy, for the present.

Mit. You have satisfied me, sir. O, here comes the fool, and the jester again, methinks.

Cor. 'Twere pity they should be parted, sir.

Mit. What bright-shining gallant's that with them? the knight they went to?

Cor. No, sir, this is one monsieur Fastidious Brisk, otherwise called the fresh Frenchified courtier. Mit. A humourist too?

Cor. As humourous as quicksilver; do but observe him; the scene is the country still, remember.