Every Man out of His Humour Part 6

[ASIDE.

SOG. That fortune favours! how mean you that, friend?

MAC. I mean simply: that you are one that lives not by your wits.

SOG. By my wits! no sir, I scorn to live by my wits, I. I have better means, I tell thee, than to take such base courses, as to live by my wits.

What, dost thou think I live by my wits?

MAC. Methinks, jester, you should not relish this well.

CAR. Ha! does he know me?

MAC. Though yours be the worst use a man can put his wit to, of thousands, to prost.i.tute it at every tavern and ordinary; yet, methinks, you should have turn'd 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.

CAR. Oh, 'tis Macilente! Signior, you are well encountered; how is it?

O, we must not regard what he says, man, a trout, a shallow fool, he has no more brain than a b.u.t.terfly, a mere stuft suit; he looks like a musty bottle new wicker'd, his head's the cork, light, light! [ASIDE TO MACILENTE.] -- I am glad to see you so well return'd, signior.

MAC. You are! gramercy, good Ja.n.u.s.

SOG. Is he one of your acquaintance? I love him the better for that.

CAR. Od's precious, come away, man, what do you mean? an you knew him as I do, you'd shun him as you would do the plague.

SOG. Why, sir?

CAR. O, he's a black fellow, take heed of him.

SOG. Is he a scholar, or a soldier?

CAR. Both, both; a lean mongrel, he looks as if he were chop-fallen, with barking at other men's good fortunes: 'ware how you offend him; he carries oil and fire in his pen, will scald where it drops: his spirit is like powder, quick, violent; he'll blow a man up with a jest: I fear him worse than a rotten wall does the cannon; shake an hour after at the report.

Away, come not near him.

SOG. For G.o.d's sake let's be gone; an he be a scholar, you know I cannot abide him; I had as lieve see a c.o.c.katrice, specially as c.o.c.katrices go now.

CAR. What, you'll stay, signior? this gentleman Sogliardo, and I, are to visit the knight Puntarvolo, and from thence to the city; we shall meet there.

[EXIT WITH SOGLIARDO.

MAC. Ay, when I cannot shun you, we will meet.

'Tis strange! of all the creatures I have seen, I envy not this Buffone, for indeed Neither his fortunes nor his parts deserve it: But I do hate him, as I hate the devil, Or that bra.s.s-visaged monster Barbarism.

O, 'tis an open-throated, black-mouth'd cur, That bites at 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 Chance's! I'll observe him.

[ENTER SORDIDO WITH AN ALMANACK IN HIS HAND.

SORD. O rare! good, good, good, good, good!

I thank my stars, I thank my stars for it.

MAC. Said I not true? doth not his pa.s.sion speak Out of my divination? O my senses, Why lost you not your powers, and become Dull'd, if not deaded, with this spectacle?

I know him, it is Sordido, the farmer, A boor, and brother to that swine was here.

[ASIDE.

SORD. Excellent, excellent, excellent! as I would wish, as I would wish.

MAC. See how the strumpet fortune tickles him, And makes him swoon with laughter, O, O, O!

SORD. Ha, ha, ha! I will not sow my grounds this year. Let me see, what harvest shall we have? "June, July?"

MAC. What, is't a prognostication raps him so?

SORD. "The 20, 21, 22 days, rain and wind." O good, good! "the 23, and 24, rain and some wind," good! "the 25, rain," good still! "26, 27, 28, wind and some rain"; would it had been rain and some wind! well, 'tis good, when it can be no better. "29, inclining to rain": inclining to rain! that's not so good now: "30, and 31, wind and no rain": no rain!

'slid, stay: this is worse and worse: What says he of St. Swithin's?

turn back, look, "saint Swithin's: no rain!"

MAC. O, here's a precious, dirty, d.a.m.ned rogue, That fats himself with expectation Of rotten weather, and unseason'd hours; And he is rich for it, an elder brother!

His barns are full, his ricks and mows well trod, His garners crack with store! O, 'tis well; ha, ha, ha!

A plague consume thee, and thy house!

SORD. O here, "St. Swithin's, the 15 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, afore I was able to hold a plough, 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 1, 2, 3, and 4, days, rainy and bl.u.s.tering:" this is well now: "5, 6, 7, 8, and 9, rainy, with some thunder;" Ay marry, this is excellent; the other was false printed sure: "the 10 and 11, great store of rain"; O good, good, good, good, good! "the 12, 13, and 14 days, rain"; good still: "15, and 16, rain"; good still: "17 and 18, rain", good still: "19 and 20", good still, good still, good still, good still, good still! "21, some rain"; some rain! well, we must be patient, and attend the heaven's pleasure, would it were more though: "the 22, 23, great tempests of rain, thunder and lightning".

O 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 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 not pleasing this?

Ha, ha, ha! G.o.d pardon me! ha, ha!

Is't possible that such a s.p.a.cious villain Should live, and not be plagued? or lies be hid Within the wrinkled bosom of the world, Where Heaven cannot see him? S'blood! methinks '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; of that fire from heaven Might fall upon his barns; or mice and rats Eat up his grain; or else that it might rot Within the h.o.a.ry ricks, even as it stands: Methinks this might be well; and after all The devil might come and fetch him. Ay, 'tis true!

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; he says 'tis a precept, and all their hands be at it.

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 hid 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 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 st.u.r.dy 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.

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.