DAW

Show them, show them, Mistress, I dare own them. Nay, I'll read them my self, too: and Author must recite his own Work. It is a Madrigal of Modesty. Modest, and fair, for fair and good are near Neighbours, how ere. — No noble virtue ever was alone, But two in one. No noble virtue ever was alone, But two in one. Then, when I praise sweet Modesty, I praise Bright Beauty's rays: And having praised both Beauty and Modesty, I have praised thee. The dor on Plutarch, and Seneca, I hate it: they are mine own imaginations, by that light. I wonder those fell lowes have such credit with Gentlemen! Grave Asses! mere Essaists! a few lose Senten ces, and that's all. A man would talk so, his whole age, I 1 page duplicate 1 page duplicate 1 page duplicate 1 page duplicate do utter as good things every hour, if they were collected, and observed, as either of them. There's Aristotle, a mere common place-fellow; Plato, a Discourser; Thucydides, and Livic, tedious and dry; Tacitus, and entire knot: sometime worth the untying, we ry seldom. Not worthy to be named for Authors. Homer, and old tedious prolix Ass, talks of Curriers, and Chines of Beef. Ʋ irgil, of dunging of Land, and Bees. Horace, of I know not what. And so Pindarus, Lycophron, Anacreon, Catullus, Seneca the Tragedian, Lucan, Propertius, Tibullus, Martial, Juvenal, Ausonius, Statius, Politian, Valerius Flaccus, and the rest— And Persius, a crabbed Coxcomb, not to be endured. Syntagma Juris Civilis, Corpus Juris Civilis, Corpus Juris Canonici, the King of Spain's Bible. A Civil Lawyer, a Spaniard. And, then there's Vatablus, Pomponatius, Symancha, the other are not to be received, within the thought of a Scholar. It's her Virtue, Sir. I have written somewhat of her silence too. Why? every man, that writes in Verse, is not a Poet; you have of the Wits, that write Verses, and yet are no Poets: they are Poets that live by it, the poor fellows that live by it. Silence in woman, is Like speech in man, Deny't who can. Why, with increase is, when I court her for the common cause of Mankind; and she says nothing, but con sentire videtur: and in time is gravida. If you you'll ask them aloud, you shall. Not since last night, Master Tru-wit. He's gone to invite his Guests. It is his Quarter-feast, Sir. Is Mistress Epicoene gone? Nay, let her eene go; she shall fit alone, and be dumb in her Chamber, a Week together, for John Daw, I warrant her: do's she refuse me? By this light, no more I will not. Nay, I will not say so, Gentlemen. I'll be very melancholic, faith. By this Picktooth, so I will. Will you go, Gentlemen? Did she say so, faith? Nay then, I do with all my heart, and I'll be io vial. As I am a Knight, I honour her, and forgive her heartily. He has done it, Sir Amorous, most maliciously, and treacherously: but if you'll be ruled by us, you shall quit him faith. Yes, Madame, I'll make and Epithalamium, I pro mised my Mistress, I have begun it already: will your Ladi ship hear it? And glad to be commanded, Mistress. Yes faith, the Captain says we shall be his Dogs to bait them. I have done mine. Not a word, Sir, you see we are jovial. Oh, Captain. He's slipped aside, Sir. Yes, give it me. Let's be jovial. Faith, Mistress, you must do so too. Learn to chastise. Mistress Otter corrects her Husband so, he dares not speak, but under correction. Is the Thames the less for the Dyers Water, Mi stris? Nay, my Mistress is not altogether unintelligent of these things; here be in presence have tasted of her fa uours. I'll tell you, Mistress— The Disease in Greek, is called Mayia, in Latin, In sania, Furor, vel Ecstasis melancholica, that is, Egressio, when a man ex melancholico, evadit fanaticus. But he may be but Phreneticus, yet, Mistress? and Phrenetis is only delirium, or so— Tut, he must have Seneca read to him, and Plutarch, and the Ancients; the Moderns are not for this Disease. I, in some Cases: but in these they are best, and A ristotles Ethics. I know not truly, Sir. It is his Nephew, Madame. As can be. This Marriage, has put him out of all. He is ready to cry all this day. Which is the way into the Garden, trow? What matter, Sir? Between whom? As I hope to finish Tacitus, I intend no Murder. Not I, by my Knighthood. And my Scholarship too. No, no, no such thing I assure you. He and I parted now, as good fileds as could be. I, he may say his pleasure. I'll give him any satisfaction, Sir—but fighting. I pray you, Master Tru-wit, be you a Mediator. Is he gone, Master Tru-wit? Oh God, yes. But is he so armed, as you say? I, Sir. Indeed, he's a Captain, and his Wife is his Kins woman. Good Lord, what means he, Sir! I pray you Ma ster Tru-wit, be you a Mediator? I would be loath to lose my right Arm, for wri ting Madrigals. Good Sir, do. Take it, by all means. What good news, Sir? It does so indeed, Sir. What was it, Sir. 'Twas unreasonable. Oh, did you so? why, he shall have them. Five kicks? he shall have six, Sir, to be friends. Deliver it, Sir. He shall have it with all my heart, to be friends. Oh God, Sir, it's nothing. I have had a hundred, Sir. One, two, three, four, five. I protest, Sir Amo rous, you shall have six. What say you, Sir? To seek you, Sir Amorous. I prevent you Sir. Mine! my Boy had it forth, to mend the handle, cene now. Sir Amorous, and I are your Servants, Sir. I can furnish you, I think, Lady. They shall rather carry us afore them, if they will, Sir. Not I: Sir Amorous is. As I hope to rise in the state, Sir Amorous, you have the person. Not I, Sir. I have no discourse—and then you have activity beside. Faith, we have seen somewhat, Sir. I, and— Nay, out with it, Sir John: do not envy your friend the pleasure of hearing, when you have had the delight of tasting. Why—a—do you speak, Sir Amorous. Faith, you shall. Why, we have been— Nay, do you, Sir Amorous. We must not wound reputation. If I can, I will, Sir. Yes, and conversed with her hourly, Sir. Oh, exceeding open, Sir. I was her Servant, and Sir Amorous was to be. Oh, no, Sir. Oh, it pleases him to say so, Sir, but Sir Amorous knows what's what, as well. Hang him, mad Ox. Content, i'faith. As the custom is, by a Jury of Physicians. Pardon us, good Master Clerimont. Is this Gentleman-like-like, Sir? Will you, Sir Amorous? will you wound reputation? Will he? I thought he would would 'beene angry. It is true indeed, Sir. That we have known your Bride, Sir— Not to day, Master Doctor.