BALLIO

Sir, I never met A quicker brain, a wit so neat and spruce. Well,—get thee home old Simo: go and kneel: Fallen on thy aged knees, and thank the gods Th'hast God a boy of wax, fit to receive Any impressions. Nay, good Asotus, such a loving father That does not bless you with a sweaty palm Clap't on your head, or some unfruitful prayer; But lays his blessings out in gold and silver, Fine white and yellow blessings. Few such father's! I cannot choose but stroke your beard, and wonder, That having so much wealth, you have the wit To understand for whom you God it. Yes, deer Pupil, Buy me and urn, while yet we laugh and live; It shall contain our drink, and when we die It may preserve our dust: it's fit our ashes Should take a nap there, where they took their liquour. Troth—with much industry—I have brought him now That he is grown-past drinking. I mean, he is grown perfect in that science. Troth well: I never met A stomach of more valour, or a tooth Of such judicious knowledge. To say the truth—but rawly. Then for the Die, He throws it with such art, so poised a hand, That had you left him nothing, that one mystery Were a sufficient portion. In this behold what frailty lives in man: He that rubbed out a life to gather trash, Is after death turned prodigal. My endeavours, Although to my best power,—alas—come short Of any merit; Sir you make me blush, And this reward but chides my insufficiency. Pray urge it not. See how the goodman weeps! Pupil, I must tell you, I do repent the lose of those good hours, And would call back the study I have taken In moral Alchemy, to extract a Gentleman Almost out of a dunghill. Still do I see So much of peasant in you? Teemed my Invention all this while for this? No better issue of my labouring brain, After so many and such painful throe's? Another sin Like this, and be transformed Mere clown again. Have I not opened to you all the mysteries, The precise rules, and axioms of Gentility? And all methodical? Yet you still so dull, As not to know you print eternal stains Upon your honour, and corrupt your blood (That cost me many a minute the refining) By carrying your own money? See these Breeches, A pair of worthy, rich, and reverend Breeches, Lost to the fashion by a lump of dross. I'll be your bailiff rather. Who, that beheld those hose, could ever suspect They would be guilty of mechanic mettle? What's your vocation? Trade you for your self? Or else whose Journeyman, or Prentice are you? This is gentile. Blessed be thy generous tongue. But who comes here? This office must be mine: I'll make you fair account of every drachma. In what and ecstasy stands that grieved wight? Spoke Like a son of Aesculapius! The word Impertinent will not bear a quarrel: The Epithet of Good hath mollified it. Sir, what with my instructions, He has the wooing character. At first assault he takes the female fort. I have read loves tactiques to him, and he knows The military discipline of wooing. To rank and file his kisses: How to muster His troops of compliments, and— Fie, turned coward? Resolution Is the best sword in war. What? will you loose the day Ever you begin the battle? Go home and blush, Thou son of fear. His mother. As read as ruby bright. She is and Amazon both stout and tall. Go, I must stay to wait on fair Techmessa, Who is as jealous of young Pamphilus, As Tyndarus of Evadne. I have descried A frost in his affections To you,—but heat above the rage of Dogdays To any other petticoat in Thebes. I do not think but were the pox a woman, He would not stick to court it. I did found him home. And with such words profaned your reputation, Would whet a cowards sword. One that never saw you Rebuked my slanderous tongue. I feel the crabtree still, While he sat still unmoved. I'll undertake he shall resign his weapon, And forswear steel in any thing but knives, Rather then venture one small scratch to salve Your wounded honour: or to prove you chaste, Encounter with a pin. Here's a fine business. What shall I do? go to a cutlers shop, And buy a sword Like that. Oh it'll not do. It is resolved. I will One way or other. Wit, at a dead lift help me. That news revives me. If Pamphilus live, then Ballio's dead again. Blessed occasion! he steals a way the sword. Here is a conquest purchased without blood. Though strength and valour fail us, yet we see There may a field be wone by policy. Exit. And Pamphilus shall learn by this deer knock His liberal valour late bestowed upon me, Invention lies at safer ward then wit: This sword shall teach not to provoke the cruel. So he takes virgins with his amorous eye, As spiders web intraps the tender fly. Mistake us not, Dear Tyndarus, Evadne may be chaste To all the world—but him. And as for him, Diana's self, or any stricter goddess Would lose the Virgin-zone. I have instilled Magnetic force into him, that attracts Their iron hearts, and fashions them Like steel Upon the anvil, to what shape he please. He knows the minute, the precise one minute, No woman can hold out in. Come to me, Sir, I'll teach you in one fortnight by Astrology To make each Burgess in all Thebes—your cuckold. And then for ribbons, points, for knots and shoestrings, Or to slip higher, garters, no Exchange Affords such choice of wares. You see what more then miracles art can do. THere is beside revenge a kind of sweetness In acting mischief. I could hug my head, And kiss the brain that hatches such deer rogueries, Such loving loving rogueries. —Silly Pamphilus, With thine own sword I'll kill thee, and then trample On the poor foolish carcase. Techmessa here? Then fortune wait on my designs, and crown they With a success as high as they deserve. And that fancy Presents him in his likeness. All the sinks And common shores in Thebes are cleanly to him. Nay, if you be so squea mish, I have no womanish itch to prate.—Farewell. Why, I did set you out in more vile colours Then ever cunning pencil used to limb, Witch, hag, or fury with. I am no ghost, flesh and blood still. I said you had a pretty head of hair, And such as might do service to the State, Made into halters: that you had a brow Hung over your eyes Like flie-flaps: that your eyes Were Like two powdering-tubs, either running over, Or full of standing brine: your cheeks were sunk So low and hollow, they might serve the boys For cherripits.— This? and more. I said your nose was Like a hunter's horn, And stood so bending up a man might hang His hat upon't: that I mistook the year, And always thought it Winter, when I saw Two icicles at your nostrils. I could Beatrice my self For speaking it, but 'twas to found him, Madam. I said you had no neck: your chin and shoulders Were so good friends, they would have nothing partly they: I vowed your breasts, for colour and proportion, Were Like a writheld pair of over worn footballs: Your waste was slender, but the ambitious buttock Climbs up so high about, who sees you naked Might swear you had been born with a vardingal. I left, ashamed and weary: he goes on, There be more chops and wrinkles in her lips, Then on the earth in heat of Dogdays: and her teeth Look Like and old park-pale: She has a tongue Would make the deaf man bless his imperfection That frees him from the plague of so much noise: And such a breath (heaven shield us) as outvies The shambles and bear-garden for a sent. For your shoulders, He thinks they were ordained to underprop Some beam o'th' Temple, and that's all the use Religion can make of you: Then your feet, For I am loath to give the full description, He vows they both are cloven. Whose sword is this? I urged him in a language of that boldness, As would have fired the chillest veins in Thebes, To stand in your defence, or else resign The fruitless steel he wore. He bid me take it. He had not so much of Knight errant in him, To vow himself champion to such a doxy. Bravely resolved. Madam, report not me to Pamphilus Author of this: for valour should not talk, And fortitude would lose it self in words. Now my safety lies Upon a ticklish point—a woman's secrecy. Madam, my reputation is deer to me. St, St. The honour of a man at arms. Now it heats. A fine piece Of female fortitude. Slaves, for what? Well, villainy Thou wilt not thrive. Sir, for 'twas you I wronged: I do confess the sword by which I raised So strange a scandal on you, was by me Stolen from your Page, as he delivered letters From you to your Techmessa; and the plot Was fashioned by her mother, though ill fortune Made me the unlucky instrument. Asot. Cursed Tutor, Thou hast read nothing to me worth the learning, But the highway to the gallows. There shall we Hang up Like vermin. Little did I think To make the women weep and sob to see Untimely end of two such proper men. This mouth was never made to stand awry, And sure my neck was long enough before. Lady, upon my humbled knees I beg Pardon for faults committed, I acknowledge That striving with felonious intent To steal a kiss or two from your sweet lips, From your sweet ear I stole a ring away. I'll bark and bite awhile Before the dogs death choke me. Well for this I'll have one engine more, my bade intents Mend not, but gather strength by punishments. Tush, 'Twas but to exercise your passive valour. Madam. Most celestial Lady, Though I have practised villainy from my cradle And from my dug sucked mischief more then milk, This fury still outdoes me.—I am vexed, Vexed to the heart to see a silly woman Carry more devils in her then my self. And yet I love thee—thou she-rogue, I love thee. Had I but such a wife; what a fine brood Of toads could I beget! Here comes my mole, The son of earth, that digs his mother's entrails To turn up treasure for his boy and me. That with industrious eyes searches to hell To buy us heaven on earth. Welcome, welcome Thou age of gold: how do the bags at home? Are all the chests in health? thrives the purse still? And says it to the talents, Multiply? A thousand pities! That you should loose the fruits of so much care. Trust me, what art can do Shall not be wanting. I had rather cut off all, and be our own carvers:—Aside Sir, if I had Medea's charms to boil And aged lamb in some enchanted caldron till he start up a lamb, I would recall Your youth, and make you Like the aged snake Cast off this wrinkled skin, and skip up fresh As at fifteen. True Sir, you know he's but your second self, The same you might have been at one and twenty: The bliss is both's alike. Place your self there. This is true Rhetoric. Your blessing was the wealth: the art of spending He had from me. We must divide: We that serve great men have no other shifts To thrive our selves but gelding our Lords gifts. Some twenty ages hence it'll be a question Which of the two the world will reverence more: You for a thriving father, or Asotus So liberal a son. They cannot, Sir, But most admire your fist, which griped so much That made his hand so open. You shall be called A doting Coxcomb twenty ages hence. Do you hear him, Sir? How Like you this discourse? What's the matter? Your sons mistress? This will persuade. I must remove your son, His fury else will surely stand betwixt us And our designs. —Old lecher, I will fit you, And geld your bags for this. You shall be milked, Emptied, and pumped. Sponge, we will squeeze you sponge, And send you to suck more.—Invincible Mars. You have worn this plot of Mars too stale already. Oh shift your self into all shapes of love. Women are taken with variety. What think you of Oberon the king of Fairies? I know it'll strike her fancy. PHryne, here is a boy of wealth, my girl, The golden bull that God this golden calf Deeply in love with thee. Melt him, Phryne, melt him: We must not leave this mine till we have found The largeness of the vein. —Suck Like and horseleech. Come, Sir, and boldly enter: I have choked out And easy path to tread in; it'll direct you To your wished journeys end, and lodge you safe In her soft arms. What to do? Strike boldly in, Sir. How the burre cleaves to him! The rogue abuses him With his greasy fists. Oh, I could burst with laughter. Here will be A pretty scene of mirth. All friends. A merry cup go round, What? Captains And Poets here, and leave the sack for flies? Well: Come the worst, I'll venture; —and perchance You shall not die in jest again o'th' sudden. C Arry these letters unto Chremylus house. Give this to Pamphilus, to Evadne that, And certify they of this sad event. It will draw tears from theirs—As from my eyes, Because they are not real obsequies. But I grieve truly that I grieve in jests Sir, you see If you had left him nothing, my instructions Can draw in patrimonies. I cannot yet contrive it handsomely. Me thinks the darkness of the night should prompt me To a plot of that complexion. —Ruminate, Ruminate Ballio. This, Sir, my Pupil gives you:—but hereafter I'll more then Triple it, if you be no enemy To your own profit. SExton, I'll open first thine ears with these, To make they fit to let persuasions in. Art thou mine! I'll pay double for thee. Shall I prevail in my request? Th'art apprehensive, to the purpose then; Have you not in the temple some deep vault Ordained for burial? Then I proceed: We have to night performed the last of service That piety can pay to our dead friends. We brought they hither To their last home.—Now Sir, they both being guilty Of their own death's, I fear the laws of Thebes Deny they burial. It would grieve me, Sir, (For friendship cannot be so soon forgotten; Especially, so firm a one as ours) To have they cast a prey to Wolves and Eagles. Sir, these religious thoughts have brought me hither Now at the dead of night; to entreat you, To cast their coffins into some deep vault, And to inter they.—Oh my Tyndarus, All memory shall fail me, ever my thoughts Can leave the impression of that love I bear thee. Thou left'ft me half of all the land thou hadst; And should I not provide thee so much earth As I can measure by thy length, heaven curse me! So true a friend No age records.—Farewell.—This work succeeds! Posterity, that shall this story get, May learn from hence and art to counterfeit. Exit Ball. A Fair sun Shine on the happy bridegroom. I have Beatrice my brain To find out a right garb: wear these two cloaks. This sable garment, sorrows Livery, Speaks funeral: this richer robe of joy, Says it's a nuptial solemnity. Rarely well. What incomparable mirth Would such a dotard and his humorous son Make in a Comedy, if a learned pen Had the expression! I do not think but Proteus, Sir, begotten you On a Chamaeleon. The more sorrow's mine. I shall be hanged. Exit. I have cast a serious thought upon my gilded, And find my self and arrant rogue. The gallows Was all the inheritance I was ever born to. E'ne use me as you please. Want of a Tutor makes unbridled youth Run wildly into passion. You have God A skilful Pilot (though I say it, Pupil) One that will steer both you, and your estate Into safe harbour. —Pray, observe his humour. Now, Asotus, The Comedy begins. Where are you Sir, where are you?