TORRENTI

Hang Iacome, My board shall be no manger for poor jades To lick up provender in. Thou whoreson peasant, know me, burn that windfall, It comes not to my head that drops so low,—Another It smells of earth, stood it again so high, My head would on a dunghill seem to lie. How now? what scar-crow's this? Has the poor snake, a sting; can he hiss? What begs the rogue for? Would, would, the Skipper raves. Fair riddance on you. Hang the dog. What tellest thou me of Peezeles? I know thee not; Set mastiffs on him, worry him from my gates. Kick the cur out. I'll try that; if my dinner be prepared, Serve me in my great state alongst this way, And as you pass two there with pistolls stand. To kill that ravenous Vulture; if he dare thrust his talents Forth to make one dish his prey. Wretch I know thee not, And loath thy sighed. Wilt murder thine own brother? Pox on your, tarry misery. Foh, th'art infectious. I am no Robbin-red-breast to bring straws To cover such a coarse. Where's thy great stomach, eat, stand, let him choose What dish he likes.—snatches a Pistol: ill fly off. You come to cast on waters; bar up my doors, But one such tattered ensign here being spread, Draws numbers hither, here must no rogues be fed; Command my carpenters invent odd engines. To manacle base beggars, hands and feet, And by my name Call my whipping posts; If you spy any man that has a look, Stigmatically drawn, Like to a furies, (Able to fright) to such I'll give large pay, To watch and ward for poor snakes night and day, And whip'em soundly if they approach my gates; The poor are but the earths-dung fit to lie Cover worser on much-heaps not to offend the eye. Give'm entrance What re you? and whence come you? Health to your Duke. That it was brave. The vanity of all mankind be mine, In me all prodigals looseness fresh shall flow, Wine, harlots, surfetts, rich embroidered clothes, Fashions, all sensual sins, all new coined oaths, Shall feed me, fill me; I'll feast every sense, Nought shall become me ill, but innocence. This Room smells. Then it's your breeches; stand off—and shines there (say you) a Sun in our horizon full as glorious, as we our self? The common people are Rascals, lying devils, Dunghills, whose savour poisons brave men's fame's, That Ape of greatness (imitating me) I mean that slavish Lord Giacomo Shall die a beggar, If at the years end, His total of expense dares equal mine; How is his house built? Fair? I'll guild mine (Like Pompey's Theater) All over to outshine his; the richest hangings Persian, or Turk, or Indian slaves can weave, Shall from my purse be bought at any rates; I'll pave my great hall with a floare of Clouds, Wherein shall move and artificial Sun, Reflecting round about me, golden beams, Whose flames shall make the room seem all on fire, And when it's night, just as that Sun goes down, A silver Moon shall rise, drawn up by stars, And as that moves, I standing in her Orb, Will move with her, and be that man ith' moon, So mocked in old wives tales; then over head, A roof of Woods, and Forests full of Dear, Trees growing downwards, full of singing quires. And this i'll do that men with praise, may crown My fame, for turning the world upside down: And what brave gallants are Gentilies guests? Let soldiers beg and starve, or steal and hang. Wo'd I had here ten-thousand Soldiers heads, Their skulls set all in silver, to drink healths To his confusion, first invented war, And the health drunk to drown the bowls i'th Sea, That very name of Soldier, makes me shrug, And think I crawl with vermin; give me Lutes, Mischief on drums, for soldiers; fetch me whores, These are men's bliss; those every Kingdoms soars, We gave in charge to search through all the world For the best Cooks, rarest musicians, And fairest girls, that will fell sin for gold. Let me have more Then the grand Signior, And my change as rare, Tall, low, and middle size, the brown, and fair; Idem give a Princes ransom now to kiss Black Cleopatra's cheek; Only to drink A richer pearl, then that of Anthony's, That Fame (where his name stands) might put down mine. O that my Mother had been Paris Whore, And I had lived to see a Troy on fire, So that by that brave light, I might have danced But one Lavalto with my Courtesan. What creature? Is he brave? It's true, that Jason Rig'd out a Fleet to fetch the Golden-Fleece; It's a brave boy, all Elemental fire, His ships are great with Child of Turkish Treasure, And here shall be delivered; marshal him in Like the seas proud commander give our charge— Now the house is fired, Your business? The honour of Ambassadors be yours; Say to the Duke that Caesar never came; More welcome to the Capitol of Room, Then he to us—healths to him—fill rich wines. Which I'll uphold, so long as there's a sun, To play the Alchemist. I'll stand to what I do, but kneel to none. Break not our custom (pray you) with one beam; The God of mettailes makes both gold and wine To Imitate whose greatness; If on you I can bestow Wine, I can give gold too, Take them as free as Bacohus spends his blood; And in them drink our health. Caesar ero, vel nihil ero: What are Gold heaps? but a rich dust for Kings To scatter with their breath, as chaff by wind? Let him then that hath gold, bear a Kings mind, And give till his arm akes, who bravely powers But into a wenches lap his golden showers, May be Jove's equal, o but he that spends A world of wealth, makes a whole world his debtor, And such a Noble spender is Jove's better; That man I'll be, I'm Alexanders heir To one partly of his mind, I wish there were Ten World's, yet not to conquer, but to fell. For Alpine hills of silver, And that I. Might at one feast, spend all that treasure dry; Who hoards up wealth, is base; who spends it, brave, Earth breeds gold, so I tread but on my slave; Bear back our gratulations to your Duke. Why pray Uncle? Why? as with balls, bandy they quite away. With anger at thy snarling must my hoase Match your old greasy codpiece? Fool, I'll be As the sun in the Zodiac; I am he That wood take Phaeton's fallen, though I set fire On the whole world to be heavens charioteire, (As he was) but one day. They are, what then? You lie. Say all this true That I spent millions, what's that to you. Were there for every day i'th'yeare a Pope, For every hour i'th'yeare a Cardinal; I'ld melt both Indies, but I'de feast'em all. Wertenberg thou not mine uncle I'de send thee with thy frozen-beard where furies Should sing it off with firebrands, touching Wenching, that art thy self and old rotten whoremaster. Go, go, idle droane, Thou enviest bees with stings, because thine is gone, Plate, jewels, revenues all shall fly. And then Sir I'll turn pickled thief, a Pirate, For as I to feed Rayot, a world did crave, So nothing but the sea shall be my grave, Mean time that circle few began l've run, though the Devil stand i'th' Centre.