BALL

I am bend leather, and will endure it. With his Cat in stead of a Scutcheon. And you can wash, and scour, and help to launder the camp, and dress the booties we steal, and at night be con tent to Kennel with me in straw. Nay sweet Io. be persuaded. And it were but for Country sake. Hang a poor Cat for killing a Mouse? As it is in the painted cloth too; when the Cat's away the Mouse will play. Well, to thy execution we commit thee. See, Joshua, is entered, one cup of brisk Orleans Makes him i'th temper he was when he leaped into Leene. Most swinelike, and then by the virtue of his good li quor he's able to convert any Brownistical sister. Nay, in that mood, you shall have him, instead of pre senting Piramus, and Thisbe, personate Cato Censorious, and his three sons, only in one thing he's out, one of Cato's sons hanged himself, and that he refer's to a dumb show; As he did his Cat for killing a Mouse on Sunday, see! he has toped the cannikin already; now will he sing treason familiarly, being sober; ask him why he did it? in sincerity, it was not he, it was his drink. That's more then the painted cloth! Nay, and but six days to'th week. He's gone both ways; see the French Lords, & our's enter. What if it were a Puppet-play? Yes, Joshua; But who shall play the hobbyhorse, Master Major? Not so, choleric Miles. Thou wilt not understand me Miles! Thou art impatient. Why then, let the Major speak the Oration; What shall Joshua do? Fear not, i'll be a fiery Dragon, Commend me to the Bells' of S. Mary's, and tell'em my Chops water to chime all in? Down with the bonny Bells? How now Hyena; why camest thou hither? Comest thou again to gibe my Misery's? Has thy maligning hearted father sent thee To scoff my sorrows? keep of I charge thee, Thou didst bewitch my poor boy with a Kiss, Thy breath is sure infectious, and I fear Their's something in thee smells of sorcery. Stand at distance. Tears? it's impossible! Marble will drop, and melt against the rain, And from the cragy Rocks, Fountainous Floods Oft get enforced issues; but to gain Relenting tears from thy obdurate heart It's impossible, as to force Fire from snow Water from flint, say the Sun shall not shine, As well upon the beggar as the King, That is alike indifferent to all. Pray listen; Would not that Physician be well hanged That for his practice sake Kills his patient, And after pleads a sorrow to his Friends? She weeps, and evidence of a hearty sorrow, My boy would not have seen her weep thus long, But hee'd have ministered comfort I my tears Plays the thief with mine eyes too. Whom converses she withal? What should I see? Is this thy sorrow, comest thou to mock me? Because I hang his Picture never my bed, Comest thou to laugh me! out out, fondling no! See thus I gaze on it; stroke his snowy hands, And prune the curled tresses of his locks, Which the Arts-man neatly has disheveled. Certes she's mad. Hee'rs but one Picture! I could tell thee, I nailed him to the Earth Riveted a stake quite through his bosom, And bid thee go seek him; but I love not To mock Misery's; i'll take this Picture hence, It troubles your sighed. It's thy forced fancies, and thy gilded together persuades thee so; pray thee be a woman, Whom thou camest to comfort, comforts thee; Though I intended to have hurled at thee, Stings of dishonour, ignominies, reproaches, And all the stock of calumnies, and scorn, Which thou art guilty off; now my pity Converts them into sorrow for thy sorrows; Heartily I do— Distemper not your self at fancies; Your time hastens to maturity, You're very big, and may endanger your fruit, If you give way to passion. Come go with me. I'll give thee comfortable cordials That shall remove these objects from thine eyes, Expelling all disastrous accidents, And plain thy thoughts as smooth as innocence, Which when thou hearest, then in rapture boast, Thou dreadest no visions, fury, fiend nor Ghost. O my poor boy! How happy had I been if he had lived? I come to see how sorrow does become thee Dost thou remember that? Monster, behold my poor boys Picture, Thou wouldst not shed a tear, nor lend a sighs, Poor emblem of a penitential heart, When in these arms I huged my dead boys corpses, Now monster, who i'st will weep or sighs, for thine? Murderer I will. See what the fruits of wealth have brought thee now, And everlasting scandal to thy name. A conscience full of horror, and black deeds; Nature's external superfluities Her white, and read Earth, rubbidg, dross, and oar, Which she but lent thee to keep Marts withal, Thou hast converted to most gross abuses, Thou wouldst not else have scorned my poor boys love, To match with wealthy Germane; see thy fruits, Thy bazes, and foundations now are sunk, And look there lies the ruins of thy works. No, I will make thee sensible of thy ils, First thou art causer of thy daughters death, For thou enforced her to the breach of faith; Next my sons ruin, whom parac'd Like, Thou laugd'st at in his fatal tragedy; Whom but a villain that abjures all laws, That breaks all precepts, both of heavens, and men, And nature's too could have done this; should I Like one that dares affront divinity Laugh at thy daughters fallen. I cannot choose. But bear a burden in calamities; Our anger's have Like tapers spent themselves, And only lighted others, and not us. Striving Like great men for supremacy! We have confounded one another's goodness, Come we will be Friends, i'll dig a soleme cell, Which shall be hung with sables round about, Where we will fit, and write the tragedy Of our poor children; i'll ha'it so set down As not one eye that views it, but shall weep Nor any ear but sadly shall relent, For never was a story of more ruth, Then this of him, and her, yet nought but trnth.