SCHOLAR

S Oldier, ta-ra-ra-ra-ra. How is't? thou lookest as if thou hadst lost a field to day. Why, thou Wertenberg not manding, Wertenberg thou? there's martial danger in that, believe it. Faith, and that's the worst disguise a man can walk in; thou Wertenberg better have appeared drunk in good clothes, much better there's no superfluities shame a man; as to be over-brave, overbold, over-swearing, overlying, over-whoring, these add still to his re pute; it's the poor indigence, the want, the lank deficiency; as when a man cannot be brave, dares not be bold, is afraid to swear, wants maintenance for a lie, and money to give a whore a sup per: this is pauper, cuius modicum non satis est; nay, he shall never be rich with begging neither, which is another wonder; because many beggars are rich. I could make Ballads for a needs. Prithee Soldier, no further this way, I participate more of Heraclitus then Democritus, I could rather weep the sins of the people then sing um. Faith, a course living I think must serve my turn; but why hast thou not found out thine own yet? What? I have no handicraft, man. I dare not: It's a work of supererogation, and the Church forbids it. Faith, the Latins have no proper word for it, that ever I read; Homo, I take it, is the best, Because it is a common name to all men. Every man's most capable of his own grief. A Scholar said you? why there are none now a days: Were you a ̄ Scholar, you'd be a singular fellow. I'll make it proof from your experience: A Commander's a Commander, Captain, Captain; But, having no Soldiers, where's the command? Such are we, all Doctors, no Disciples now; Every man's his own teacher, none learns of others: You have not herd of our Mechanic Rabbies, That shall dispute in their own tongues backward and forward, With all the learned Father's of the Jews? I'll show you sir, (and they are men are daily to be scene) There's Rabbi Job, a venerable Silkeweauer, Jehu, a Throester, dwellingith Spittle fields; Theres Rabbi Abimelech, a learned Cobbler, Rabbi Lazarus, a superstichious Taylor: These shall hold up their Shittles, Needles, Awls, Against the gravest Levite of the Land, And give no ground neither. You understand right: and these men by practic Have God the Theory of all the Arts At their fingers ends, and in that they'le live; How ere they'le die, I know not: for they change daily. As Boys learn Arithmetic, practice with Counters To reckon sums of silver: so with their Tools They come to Grammar, Logic, Rhetoric And all the Sciences; as for example, The devout Weaver sits within his Loom, And thus he makes a learned Syllogism: His Woof the Mayor, and his Warp the Minor. His Shittle then the brain, and firm conclusion, Makes him a piece of Stuff, that Aristotle, Ramus, nor all the Logicians can take a pieces. So likewise by His deep instructive and his mystic tools, The Taylor comes to be Rhetorical, First, on the spread Velvet, Satin, Stuff, or Cloth, He chalks out a circumferent Paraphrase, That goes about the bush where the Thief stands. Then comes his Sheeres in shape of and Eclypsis, And takes away the t'others too long tail: By his Needle he understands Ironia, That with one eye looks two ways at once: Metonymia ever at his fingers ends. Some call his Pickadell, Synecdoche: But I think rather that should be his Yard Being but Pars pro toto, and by Metaphor All know, the Selleridge under the shopboard, He calls his Hell, not that it is a place Of Spirits abided, but that from that Abyss Is no recovery or redemption To any owners hand what ever falls. I could run further, were't not tedious, And place the stiff-toed Cobbler in his form: But let them mend themselves, for yet all's nought: They now learn only never to be taught. Without book is most perfect, for with 'vm We shall hardly: thou mayest keep a Fence-school, it's a Noble Science. It's a poor living thats picked out of boys buttocks. It's somewhat better then the night-Farmer yet. Would? Theres somewhat more, There is in sighed a glorious presence, A presence more then humane. In name of all the Deities, what art thou? Thy shine is more then Subcelestial, It's at the least heavenly Angelical. In that poor Pilgrimage (since I could go) I hitherto have walked. I want all but grief. Do, Goddess And re-erect the ruins of thy Fame For Poesy can do it. But none attains their glories (King of Stars:) These are the fame's are followed, and pursued, But never overtaken. I hope for many ages. And I'll settle Here, in a Land of a most glorious Peace That ever made joy fruitful: where the Head Of him that rules, to Learning's fair renown, Is doubly decked with Laurel, and a Crown: And both most worthily. And the glory Of Noble actions bring white hairs upon thee: Present our wish with reverence to this Place: For here't must be confirmed, or 'tas no grace.