old wives and barbers, are all suppositors to the right worshipful doctor, as I take it. Some of you are the head of your art, and the horns toobut they come by nature. Thou livest single for no other end, but that thou fearest to be a cuckold.

Cor. Have at thee! Thou affectest railing only for thy health; thy miseries are so thick and lasting, that thou hast not one poor denier to bestow on opening a vein: wherefore, to avoid a pleurisy, thou❜lt be sure to prate thyself once a month into a whipping, and bleed in the breech instead of the arm.

Rhe, Have at thee again!

Cor. Come!

Cuc. There, there, there! O brave doctor!
Pel. Let them alone.

Rhe. Thou art in thy religion an atheist, in thy condition a cur, in thy diet an epicure, in thy lust a goat, in thy sleep a hog; thou tak'st upon thee the habit of a grave physician, but art indeed an impostorous empiric. Physicians are the coblers, rather the botchers, of men's bodies; as the one patches our tattered clothes, so the other solders our diseased flesh.-Come on!

Physicians are the coblers, rather the botchers, of men's bodies.] I have omitted the word (bodies,) which seems to have slipped in before coblers. This is not, I suspect, the only error: but 'tis to little purpose to waste time on what, after all, will scarcely be thought worth mending. In the opening of this speech, the poet uses condition, like all the writers of his time, for disposition, nature, &c.

Cuc. To't, to't! hold him to't! hold him to't! to't, to't, to't!

. Cor. The best worth in thee is the corruption of thy mind, for that only entitles thee to the dignity of a louse: a thing bred out of the filth and superfluity of ill humours. Thou bitest anywhere, and any man who defends not himself with the clean linen of secure honesty,-him thou darest not come near. Thou art fortune's idiot, virtue's bankrupt, time's dunghill, manhood's scandal, and thine own scourge. Thou would'st hang thyself, so wretchedly miserable thou art, but that no man will trust thee with as much money as will buy a halter; and all thy stock to be sold is not worth half as much as may procure it.

Rhe. Ha, ha, ha! this is flattery, gross flattery. Cor, I have employment for thee, and for ye all. Tut! these are but good morrows between us. Rhe. Are thy bottles full?

Cor. Of rich wine; let's all suck together,
Rhe. Like so many swine in a trough.

Cor. I'll shape ye all for a device before the prince; we'll try how that can move him. Rhe, He shall fret or laugh.

Cuc. Must I make one?

Cor. Yes, and your feminine page too.

Gril. Thanks, most egregiously.

Pel. I will not slack my part.

Cuc, Wench, take my buckler.

Cor. Come all unto my chamber; the project is cast; the time only we must attend.

Rhe. The melody must agree well and yield

sport,

When such as these are, knaves and fools, consort.'

SCENE III.

[Exeunt.

An Apartment in the House of THAMASTA.

Enter AMETHUS, THAMASTA, and Kala.

Amet. Does this show well?

Tha. What would you have me do?

Amet. Not like a lady of the trim, new crept Out of the shell of sluttish sweat and labour Into the glitt❜ring pomp of ease and wantonness, Embroideries, and all these antick fashions, That shape a woman monstrous; to transform Your education, and a noble birth

Into contempt and laughter. Sister! sister! She who derives her blood from princes, ought To glorify her greatness by humility.

Tha. Then you conclude me proud?

Amet. Young Menaphon,

My worthy friend, has loved you long and truly:
To witness his obedience to your scorn,
Twelve months, wrong'd gentleman, he undertook
A voluntary exile. Wherefore, sister,

In this time of his absence, have you not

The audience must be light o' the sere, to whom such "melody could yield sport." It is generally a relief to escape from the sad efforts of the author's attempts at pleasantry. To do him justice, he appears to entertain some suspicion of his success in this part of the plot, and has therefore besought the audience, when "they met some lighter strain, rather to look at the main than the bye."

Dispos'd of your affections on some monarch?
Or sent ambassadors to some neighb'ring king
With fawning protestations of your graces,
Your rare perfections, admirable beauty?
This had been a new piece of modesty,
Would have deserv'd a chronicle!

Tha. You are bitter;

And brother, by your leave, not kindly wise.'
My freedom is my birth; I am not bound
To fancy your approvements, but my own.
Indeed, you are an humble youth! I hear of
Your visits, and your loving commendation
your heart's saint, Cleophila, a virgin

Το

Of a rare excellence: What though she want
A portion to maintain a portly greatness!
Yet 'tis your gracious sweetness to descend
So low; the meekness of your pity leads you!
She is your dear friend's sister! a good soul!
An innocent!--

Amet. Thamasta!

Tha. I have given

Your Menaphon a welcome home, as fits me;
For his sake entertain'd Parthenophill,

The handsome stranger, more familiarly

Than, I may fear, becomes me; yet, for his part, I not repent my courtesies: but you

Amet. No more, no more! be affable to both; Time may reclaim your cruelty.

1

'Not kindly wise.] i. e. your wisdom has not the natural tenderness of a brother in it.

Tha.. I pity

The youth; and, trust me, brother, love his sadness:
He talks the prettiest stories; he delivers

His tales so gracefully, that I could sit
And listen, nay, forget my meals and sleep,
To hear his neat discourses. Menaphon
Was well advis'd in choosing such a friend
For pleading his true love.

Amet. Now I commend thee;
Thou'lt change at last, I hope.

Enter MENAPHON and PARTHEnophill.

Tha. I fear I shall.

Amet. Have you survey'd the garden?
Men. 'Tis a curious,

A pleasantly contriv'd delight,

Tha. Your eye, sir,

Hath in your travels often met contents

Of more variety?

Par. Not any, lady.

[Aside,

Men. It were impossible, since your fair pre

sence

Makes every place, where it vouchsafes to shine, More lovely than all other helps of art

Can equal.

Tha. What you mean by "helps of art," You know yourself best; be they as they are; You need none, I am sure, to set me forth. Men. "Twould argue want of manners, more than skill,

Not to praise praise itself.