A Select Collection of Old English Plays
Chapter 715 : MEN. Now, chaste Diana, grant my nets to hold.TAC. The blus.h.i.+ng[179] childhood of

MEN. Now, chaste Diana, grant my nets to hold.

TAC. The blus.h.i.+ng[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 s.e.xTA.

TACTUS _solus_.

TAC. Tactus, thy sneezing somewhat did portend.

Was ever man so fortunate as I?

To break his s.h.i.+ns 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 enn.o.bled, and I am transform'd Unto the sacred temper of a king.

Methinks I hear my n.o.ble 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-gla.s.s!

Poets will write whole volumes of this scorce[183]; Where's my attendants? Come hither, sirrah, quickly; Or by the wings of Hermes--

SCAENA SEPTIMA.

OLFACTUS, _in a garland of bays intermingled with white and red roses upon a false hair, his sleeves wrought with flowers under a damask mantle, over a pair of silk bases; a pair of buskins drawn with ribbon, a flower in his hand_.

TACTUS, OLFACTUS.

TAC. Ay me! Olfactus comes; I call'd too soon, He'll have half part, I fear; what shall I do!

Where shall I run? how shall I s.h.i.+ft him off?

[TACTUS _wraps up the robe and crown, and sits upon them_.

OLF. This is the time, and this the place appointed, Where Visus promis'd to confer with me.

I think he's there--no, no, 'tis Tactus sure.

How now? what makes you sit so nicely?

TAC. 'Tis past imagination, 'tis so indeed.

OLF. How fast his hands[184] are fixed, and how melancholy he looks!

Tactus! Tactus!

TAC. For this is true, man's life is wondrous brittle.

OLF. He's mad, I think, he talks so idly. So ho, Tactus!