TUCCA

How now, good man slave? what, Roll Powle? all ri vals, Rascal? why my Knight of worship, dost hear? Are these thy best projects? is this thy designs and thy discipline, to suffer knaves to be competitors with Commanders and Gent men? are we parallels, rascal? are we parallels? For this Gentleman, Minos? Sirrah, Boy, brace your drum a little straighter, and do the tother fellow there, he in the— what shall call him— and yet, stay too. Do, do: stay; there's a Drachma, to purchase Gin ger-bread, for thy Muse. Come, Cockatrice. Do, you perpetual Stinkard, do: go, talk to Tap sters and Ostlers you slave: they are i'your element, go: here be the Emperors captains, you Raggamussin Rascal; and not your Comrades. Th'art in the right, my venerable Cropshin, they will indeed: the tongue of the Oracle never twangd truer. Your Courtier cannot kiss his mistress Slippers, in quiet, for them, nor your white innocent Gallant pawn his revelling suit, to make his Punque a supper. And honest decayed Commander, cannot skelder, cheat, nor be seen in a baudie house, but he shall be straight in one of their wormewod Comedies. They are grown licentious, the Rogues; Libertines, flat Libertines. They forget they are i'the Statute, the Rascals, they are blazond there, there they are tricked, they and their Pedigrees: they need no other Heralds Iwisse. Minos? come hither, Minos; Thou art a wise Fell low it seems: Let me talk with thee. Go to, thou shallt be then: I'll have thee one, Minos. Take my sword from those Rascals, dost thou see? Go, do it; I cannot attempt with patience. What does this Gentle man owe thee, little Minos? What? do you laugh, Howleglas? death, you per stemptuous Varlet, I am none of your fellows; I have come manded a hundred and fifty such Rogues, I. I hear, you'll bring me of the Stage there; you'll play me, they say: I shall be presented by a sort of Copper-lac't Scoundrels of you: Death of Pluto, and you Stage me, Stinkard; your Mansions shall sweat for't, your Tabernacles, Varlettes: your Globes: and your Try umphes. I woo not, my good two penny Rascal: reach me thy neufe. Dost hear? What wilt thou give me a week, for my brace of Beagles, here, my little Point-trussers? you shall ha'them Act among ye. Sirrah, you, pronounce. Thou shalt hear him speak, in King Darius doleful strain. Your fellow Sharer, there shall do't; Cry Sirrah, cry. Enough of this, Boy. Oh! he will make thee eternally enamoured of him there: do Sirrah; do: it'll allay your fellows Fury a little. Here, it's at thy service, Boy: How dost Like him? art not rapt? art not tickled now? dost not applaud, Rascal? dost not applaud? Well: go thy ways; pursue thy Projects, let me alone with this Design: my Poëtaster shall make thee a Play, & thou shalt be a man of good parts, in it. But stay, let me see: Do not bring your Father Aesop, your Politician; unless you can ram up his mouth with Cloves: the slave smells ran ker then some sixteen Dunghills, and is seventeen times more rotten: Marry, you may bring Friskin, my Zany: He's a good skipping Swaggerer; and your fat Fool there, my Mango, bring him too: but let him not beg Rapiers, nor scarves in his over-familiar playing face, nor roar out his barren bold Jests, with a tormenting Laughter, between drunk and dry. Do you hear, Rascal? Give him warning, Admonition, to forsake his saucy glavering Grace, and his goggle Eye: it does not become him, Sirrah: tell him so. I'll know the poor, egregious, nitty Rascal, and he have such commendable Qualities, I'll cherish him: stay; here comes the Tartar; I'll make a gathering for him; I: a Purse, and put the poor slave in fresh rags; tell him so, to comfort him: well said Boy. Well, now fare thee well, my honest Penny-biter: Commend me to seven Shares and a half: and remember to morrow: if you lack a service, you shall play in my name, Rascals; but you shall buy your own cloth: and I'll have two shares for my Countenance: let thy Author stay with me. 'Twas well done little Minos: thou didst stalk well: forgive me that I said thou stunkst, Minos: 'twas the savour of a Poet, I met sweating in the street, hangs yet in my nostrils: I; he, dost thou know him? Hang him fusty Satire; he smells all Goat; he carries a Ram, under his Armholes, the slave: I am the worse when I see him. Did not Minos impart? Well said, keep them, weell share anon; come little Minos. By thy leave, my neat Scoundrel: what, is this the mad Boy you talked on? Give me thy hand, Agamemnon; we hear abroad, thou art the Hector of Citizens: what sayest thou? are we well come to thee, noble Pyrrhus? No more, we conceive thee. Which of these is thy Wedlock, Menelaus? thy Hellen? thy Lucrece? that we may do her honour; mad Bay? A better, profane Rascal? I cry thee mercy (my good Scroile) was't thou? She is a Venus, a Vesta, a Melpomene: Come him there Penelope; what's thy name, Iris? Thou art in merit to be and Empress (Chloë) for and Eye, and a Lip; thou hast and Emperor's Nose: kiss me again: it's a virtuous Punque, So. Before Jove, the Gods were a sort of Goslings, when they suffered so sweet a breath, to perfume the bed of a stinkard: thou hadst ill fortune, Thisbe; the Fates were infatuate; they were, Punque; they were. I am known by the Name of Captain Tucca, Punque: the noble Roman, Punque: a Gent'man, and a Come maunder, Punque. Why, Mother Juno! Gods and Fiends! what, wilt thou suffer this ocular Temptation? Nor thou hast not collied thy face enough, Stinkard. His Tongue shall be Gent'man Usher to his Wit, and still go before it. Why, you whoreson blockhead, it's your only block of wit in fashion (now adais) to applaud other folks jests. Do, Apollo: thou art a good Musician. Say, Jupiter. Boy, slink Boy. What's become of my little Punque, Venus; and the poult-foote Stinkard, her Husband? would? God Jupiter is banished, I hear: and his Cocka trice, Juno, locked up: 'Hart; and and all the Poetry in Parnassus get me to be a Player again, I'll fell them my share for six pence. But this is Humours; Horace, that Goat-footed envious Slave: he's turned fawn now; and Informer, the Rogue: it's he has betrayed us all; Did you not see him, with the Emperor, crouching? Well, follow me. Thou shalt libel, and I'll cudgel the Rascal. Boy, provide me a Truncheon; Revenge shall gram tulate him, Tam Marti, quam Mercurio. Valiant? so is mine Arse: Gods, and Fiends? I'll blow him into air, when I meet him next: He dares not fight with a puck-fist. Where? Jupiter save thee, my good Poet; my Pro phet; my Noble Horace. I scorn to beat the Rogue i'the Court; and I saluted him, thus fair, because he should suspect nothing, the Rascal; Come; wee'll go see how forward our Journeyman is towards the untrussing of him. Not Enter? Charge them, upon their Allegiance, Cropshin. He will, Humours, he will: He will squeeze you, Poet Puckfist. I, and Epaminondas your Patron, here, with his flag gone Chain; Come, resign: Though 'twere your great Grandfathers, the Law ha made it mine now, Sir. Look to him, my party-coloured Rascals; Look to him. I, and remember to beg their Land betimes; be before some of these hungry Court-hounds sent it out. Hast thou any Evasion, Stinkard? Touch him, old Buskin's. I, and honest Sycophant-like Slave, and a Politician, beside. He is without, here. Call in the Player, there; Master Aesop, call him. Yes: this Gent'man, and his Achate's must. It's a Gent'man of Quality, this; though he be somewhat out of Clothes, I tell ye. Come Aesop: hast a Bay leaf i'thy mouth? Well said; be not out, Stinkard. Thou shalt have a Monopoly of playing, confirmed to thee and thy Covey, under the Emperors broad Seal, for this service. Body of Jupiter! What? Will they arraign my brisk Poëtaster, and his poor Journeyman, would? Would I were abroad skeldring for Twopence, so I were out of this Laby rinth again: I do feel my self turn Stinkard already. But I must set the best Face I have, vpon't now: well said, my di Vine, deft Horace; bring the whoreson detracting Slaves to the Bar, do; Make them hold up their spread Golls; I'll give in Evidence for thee, if thou wilt. Take courage Crispinus; Would thy man had a clean band. Thou shalt see anon: Do not make Division with thy Legs, so. I am one of thy Commanders, Caesar; A man of Sir vice, and Actium; My Name is Pantilius Tucca: I have served i'thy Wars against Mark Antony; I. I; So the noble Captain may be joined with them in Commission; say. This's a fellow of a good prodigal tongue too; this'll do well. Thou twangst right, little Horace; they be indeed: A couple of Chapfallen Curs. Come, We of the Bench, Let's rise to the Urn, and condemn them, quickly. Who holds the Urn to us? would? Fear no thing: I'll quit you, mine honest pitiful Stinkards. I'll do't. Go to. Quickly, you Whoreson Egregious Varlettes; Come forward. What? shall we fit all day upon you? you make no more haste, now, than a Beggar upon Pat tins: or a Physician to a Patient that ha no money, you Pil chers. Caesar. Marry he tell thee old Swaggrer; He was a poor blind rhyming Rascal, that lived obscurely up and down in Booths & Tap-houses, and scarce ever made a good meal in his sleep, the whoreson hungry beggar. Thou speakest sentences, old Bias. No, my little knight Errant, dispatch with Cavalier Cothurnus there; I'll attend thee, I. Why, what should I say? or what can I say, my most Magnanimous Mirror of Knighthood? Should I say thou art rich? or that thou art honourable? or wise? or valiant? or learned? or li berall? Why, thou art all these, and thou-knowest it (my noble Lucullus ) thou knowest it: come, be not ashamed of thy for tues, old Stump. Honour's a good brooch to wear in a men hat, at all times. Thou art the man of wars Mecaenas, knight. Why shouldst not thou be graced then by them, as well as he is by his Poets? How now my Carrier, what news? Come, do not whisper to me, but speak it out. what, it is no treason against the State, I hope, is't? His Moils? now the Bots, the Spavin, and the Glan dears, and some dosen diseases more, light on him, & his Moils. What have they the Yellows, his Moils, that they come no faster? or are they fowndred? would? his Moils have the Staggers belike: have they? He owes me almost a Talon, and he thinks to bear it away with his Moils, does he? Sirrah, you, Nutcracker: go your ways to him again, and tell him I must have money, I: I cannot eat stones and Traves, say. What, will he clem me and my followers? Ask him and he will clem me: do, go. He would have me fry my Jerkin, would he? Away Setter, away. Yet stay, my little tumbler: the Knight shall supply now: I will not trouble him, I cannot be importunate, I: I cannot be im pudent. Dost thou hear, my little Six and fifty, or thereabouts? Thou art not to learn the humours and tricks of that old bald Cheater, Time: thou hadst not this chain for nothing. Men of worth have their Chymara is, as well as other creatures: and they do see monsters, sometime: they do, they do. Thou must let me have six, six, Drachmas, I mean, Old boy; thou shalt do it: I tell thee, Old boy, thou shalt, and in private too, dost thou see? Go, walk off: there, there. Six is the sum. Thy son's a gallant Spark, and must not be put out of a sud dame: come hither, Callimachus. Thy Father tells me thou art too Poetical, Slave: thou must not be so: thou must leave them, young Novice; thou must: They are a sort of poor starved Rascals; that are ever wrapped up in foul linen: and can boast of nothing but a lean visage, peering out of a seam-rent suit; the very Emblems of Beggary. No: dost hear? turn Lawyer, Thou shalt be my Solicitor: 'Tis right old boy, Is't? No: fare thou well mine honest Knight, and thou old Beaver, Pray thee Knight, when thou comest to town, see me at my lodging, visit me some times: Thou shalt be welcome old boy: do not balk me good Swaggrer; Jove keep thy chain from pawning: go thy ways: if thou lack money I'll lend thee some: I'll leave thee to thy horse, now; Adue. Boy, you can have but half a share now, boy. Exit. Why how now, my good brace of Bloodhounds? whither do you drag the Gent'man? you Mungrelles, you Curs, you Bandogges, we are Captain Tucca, that talk to you, you inhumane Pilchers. Their Pestilence. What are you, sir? Then you are not far distant from a Fool, sir. I knew that was not a Physician; fough: out of my Nostrils, thou stinkest of Lotium, & the Syrringe; away Quack salver; Follower, my sword. Do you hear, You, Goodman slave? Hook, Ram, Rogue, Catchpole, lose the Gent'man, or by my velvet arms— Kiss thy hand, my honourable active Varlet: & im brace thee, thus. My sword, my tall Rascal. What? and a Wit to? By Pluto, thou must be cherish ed, Slave; heres three Drachmas for thee: hold. Give me. Nay, but Rogue: I, a rescue? away inhumane Varlet. Come, come; I ne ver relish above one Jest at most; do not disgest me: Sirrah, do not. Rogue, I tell thee, Rogue, do not. I, why; thou art not angry Rascal? art thou? What's thy name? Thou art one of the Centumviri, Old boy, art' not? What? no more? Come, thou shalt release him, Minos: what, I'll be his Bail, thou shalt take my word, Old boy, and Casheere these Furies: thou shalt do't, I say thou shalt, little Mi nos, thou shalt. Come, Minos is not to learn how to use a Gent'man of quality, I know; My sword: If he pay thee not, I will, and I must, old boy. Thou shalt be my Apothecary too: ha'st good E ringo's, Minos? Go too, then Vermin, know the house. Thou hast it, my sword. How, Minos? look in the Gentleman's face, and but read his silence. Pay, pay; it's honour, Minos. Tut, I cannot compliment, by Mars; but Jupiter love me, as I love good words, & good clothes, and there's and end. Thou shalt give my boy that girdle & hangers, when thou hast worn them a little more. Not now, you shall not take, boy. Nay, and a 'sweare by his truth, take it boy: do not make a Gentleman forsworn. Minos is joust, and you are knaves, and— Pass on, my good Scoundrel, pass on, I honour thee: But, that I hate to have Actium with such base Rogues as these; you should have scene me unrip their noses now, and have sent them to the next Barbers, to stitching: for, do you see? I am a man of Humour, and I do love the Varlettes, the honest Var lets; they have Wit, and Valour, and are indeed good profitable — Arrant Rogues, as any live in and Empire. Dost thou hear, Poetaster? second me. Stand up; Minos, close, gather, yet; so. Sir, (thou shalt have a quarter share, be resolute) you shall at my re quest take Minos by the hand here: little Minos, I will have it so; All friends, and a health; Be not inexorable: and thou shalt impart the wine, Old boy, thou shalt do't, little Minos, thou shalt: make us pay it in our Physic. What? we must live and honour the Gods sometime; now Bacchus, now Comus, now Priapus; every God a little. What's he, that stalks by, there? Boy, Pyrgus, you were best let him pass, Sirrah; do Leveret, let him pass, do. A Player? Call him, call the lousy slave hither; what'l he sail by, and not once strike, or veil to a Man of war? would? do you hear? you, Player, Rogue, Stalker, come back here: No respect to Men of worship, you slave? What, you are proud, you Rascal, are you proud? would? you grow rich, do you? and purchase? you have Fortune & the good year on your side, you Stinkard? you have? you have? You did not? where was your fight, Oedipus? you walk with Hares eyes, do you? I'll have them glazed, Rogue; and you say the word, they shall be glazed for you: Come, we must have you turn Fiddler again, slave, 'get a Base Violin at your back, and march in a Tawny Coat, with one sleeve, to Goose-fair, and then you'll know us; you'll see us then; you will, Gulch, you will? Then; wil't please your worship to have any Music, Captain? Sayest thou so, honest Vermin? Give me thy hand, thou shalt make us a supper one of these nights. Dost thou swear? To morrow then; say, and hold slave. There are some of you Players honest Gent'man-like Scoundrels: A man may skelder ye, now and than, of half a dozen shillings, or so. Dost thou not know that Caprichio there? Go, and be acquainted with him, then; he is a Gent' man, parcel- Poet, you slave: his Father was a man of worship, I tell thee: go, he pens high, lofty, in a new stalking strain; bigger then half the Rhymers i'the town again: he was born to fill thy mouth, Minotaurus; he was: he will teach thee to tear and rand, Rascal; to him: cherish his Muse; go: thou hast forty, forty; shillings, I mean, Stinkard; give him in earnest; do: he shall write for thee, slave. If he pen for thee once, thou shalt not need to travel, with thy pumps full of gravel, any more, after a blind Jade and a Hamper. It's no matter: give him what thou hast: Paunch, I'll give my word for the rest: though it lack a shilling or two, it skills not: Go, thou art and honest Twenty i'the hundred; I'll have the Statute repealed for thee, Minos: I must tell thee, Minos, thou hast dejected yon'Gent'mans spirit exceedingly: dost observe? dost note, little Minos? Go to then, raise; recover; do; suffer him not to droop, in prospect of a Player, a Rogue, a Stager: put twenty into his hand; twenty; Drachmas, I mean, and let no body see: go, do it; the work shall commend it self: be Minos: I'll pay. And what new Plays have you now a foot, sirrah? would? I would feign come with my Cockatrice one day, and see a Play; if I knew when there were a good baudie one: but they say, you have nothing but Humours, Revels, and Satires, that gird, and fart at the time, you slave. In and amorous vain now, sirrah; peace. Now the orrible fierce Soldier, you Sirrah. Nay, thou shall see that, shall ravish thee anon: prick up thine ears, Stinkard: the Ghost, Boys. Now, thunder, sirrah, you, the rumbling Player. No you mangonizing slave, I will not partly from them: you'll fell them for Enghles you; let's have good cheer to mor row night at supper, Stalker, and then wee'll talk, good Capon, & Plover, do you hear, Sirrah? & do not bring your eating Player with you there; I cannot away with him: He will eat a leg of mutton, while I am in my porridge, the lean Poluphagus, his belly is Like Barathrum, he looks Like a Midwife in Men apparel, the slave; nor the villanous-out-of-tune Fiddler Oh Eno barbus, bring not him. What hast thou there? six and thirty? would? Stay: thou shalt see the More, ere thou goest: what's he, with the half Arms there, that salutes us out of his cloak, Like a Motion? would? And: why so, Stinkard? But, you know nothing by him; do you, to make a Play of? Why, my Parnassus, here, shall help him, if thou wilt: Can thy Author do it impudently enough? There spoke my Genius. Minos, some of thy Erin goes, little Minos; send: come hither Parnassus. I must would thee familiar with my little Locust, here; 'tis a good Vermin they say. Exeunt. I'll call her. Come hither Cockatrice: here's one, will set thee up, my sweet Punque; set thee up. A, would; Stinkard. Another Orpheus, you slave, another Orpheus; and Arion, riding on the back of a Dolphin, Ras call. Show them Bankrupt, show them; they have salt in them, and will brook the air, Stinkard. How? he borrow of Horace? he shall pawn himself to ten Brokers, first. Do you hear, Poëtasters? I know you to be Knights, and men of worship. He shall write with Horace, for a Talon: and let Mecoenas and his whole Col ledge of Critics take his partly: thou shalt do't young Phoe bus: thou shalt, Phaeton; thou shalt. Thou sayest true, my poor Poetical Fury, he will pen all he knows. A sharp thorny-tooth'd Satirical Rascal, fly him; He carries Hay in his horn; he will sooner lose his best friend, then his least Jest. What he once drops upon paper, a gainst a man, lives eternally to upbraid him in the mouth of e very slave Tankerd-bearer, or Waterman: not a Baud, or a boy that comes from the bake house, but shall point at him: it's all Dog, and Scorpion; he carries poison in his teeth, and a sting in his tail; fough. Body of Jove! I'll have the slave whipped one of these days for his Satires, and his Humours, by one cashiered Clarke, or another. Yes, I follow; but thou must not talk of this now, my little Bankeroupt. Dost hear, Mad Jupiter? We'll have it enacted; He, that speaks the first wise word, shall be made Cuckold. What sayest thou? Is't not a good Motion? Sirrah, Boy: Catamite. Look you play Ganymede well now, you slave: Do not spill your Nectar; Carry your Cup even: so. You should have rubbed your Face, with whites of Eggs, you Rascal; till your Brows had shone Like our sooty brother's here, as sleek as a Hornbook: or ha'steept your lips in wine, till you made them so Plump, that Juno might have been Jealous of them. Punque, kiss me, Punque. Well said, Minstrel Momus: I must put you in? must I? When will you be in good fooling of your self, Fiddler? never? 'Thanke you, Rascal. Well said, my fine Phrygian Fry, inform, inform. Give me some wine, King of Heralds; I may drink to my Cockatrice. By thy leave good man Usher: mend thy Periwig, so. Nay, but as thou art a man, dost hear? a man of wor ship; and honourable: Hold, here, take thy chain again: Resume, mad Mecoenas. What? dost thou think, I meant to-have kept it, old Boy? No; I did it but to fright thee, I: to try how thou wouldst take it. What? will I turn Shark, upon my Friends? or my friends Friends? I scorn it with my three Souls. Come; I love Bully Horace, as well as thou dost, I: it's and ho nest Hieroglyphic. Give me thy wrist Helicon. Dost thou think, I'll second ere a Rhinoceros of them all, against thee? would? or thy noble Hippocrene, here? I'll turn Stager first, and be whipped too; dost thou see, Bully? Not Guilty, say. By the Roman Gods, and the noblest Romans. Alas, my worshipful Praetor! it's more of thy Gent' ness, then of my deserving, Iwusse. But, since it hath pleased the Court to make choice of my Wisdom, and Gravity, Come my Calumnious Varlets; Let's hear you talk for your selves now, and hour or two. What can you say? Make a noise. Act, Act. Say I. what? dost thou stand upon it, Pimp? Do not deny thine own Minerva; thy Pallas; the Issue of thy Brain. There's a Father, will not deny his own Bastard, now, I warrant thee. I marry, this was written Like a Hercules in Poetry, now. Well said. This carries Palm with it. Gallus, Guilty. Pantilius Tucca— us Parcel Guilty; I. I, you whoreson Cantharides? was't I? Hold thy peace, Poet Praetor: I appeal from ̄ thee, to Came sar, I. Do me right, Royal Caesar. Gods, and Fiends. Caesar! thou wilt not Caesar? wilt thou? Away, you whoreson Vultures; away. You think I am a dead Corpse now; because Caesar is disposed to jest with a man of Mark, or so. Hold your hooked talons out of my flesh, you inhumane Gorboduckes. Go to, do't. What? will the Royal Augustus cast away a Gent'man of worship, a Captain, and a Counterfeit ̄ maunder; for a couple of condemned Caitiff Calum nious Cargo's? Would! Gods & Fiend! why dost hear? Rogue, Thou, give me thy hand; I say unto thee, thy hand: Rogue. what? dost not thou know me? not me, Rogue? not Captain Tucca, Rogue?