No lesson, Madam, but Lacrymae's? if you had buri∣ed nine husbands, so much water as you might squeeze out of an Onyon had beene teares enow to cast away upon fellowes that cannot thanke you, come be Ioviall.

Marry this, to see much, say little, doe little, get little, spend little, and want nothing.

Why then, Madam, what I knocke out now is the very Maribone of mirth, and this it is.

Say on.

The best mirth for a Lawyer is to have fooles to his Clients: for Citizens, to have Noblemen pay their debts: for Taylors to have store of Sattin brought in, for then how little soere their houses are, they'll bee sure to have large yards: the best mirth for bawds is to have fresh handsome whores, and for whores to have rich guls come aboard their pinnaces, for then they are sure to build Gally-Asles.

These to such soules are mirth, but to mine none: Away.

How now? what quarter of the Moone has she cut out now? my Lord puts me into a wise office, to be a mad wo∣mans keeper: why madam!

What powder? come, what powder? when did you ever see a woman grinded into powder? I am sure some of your sex powder men and pepper 'em too.

Pray be more season'd, if he made any Bawds he did ill, for there is enough of that flye-blowne flesh already.

Is the world all Ruffe and Feather, and nothing else? shall I never see a Taylor give his coat with a disterence from a Gentleman?

My musicke is a Canon; a pitch field my stage; Furies the Actors, blood and vengeance the scaene; death the story; a sword imbrued with blood, the pen that writes, and the Poet a terrible buskind Tragicall fellow, with a wreath about his head of burning match instead of Bayes.

On to the Battaile.

'Tis here without bloud-shed: This our maine Battalia, that the Van, this the Vaw, these the wings, here we fight, there they flye, here they insconco, and here ou sconces lay 17 Moones on the cold earth.

The Battaile? Am I come from doing to talking? The hardest part for a Souldier to play is to prate well; our Tongues are Fifes, Drums, Petronels, Muskets, Culverin and Canon, these are our Roarers; the Clockes whieh wee goe by, are our hands; thus wee reckon tenne, our swords strike eleven, and when steele targets of proofe clatter one against another, then 'tis noone, that's the height and the heat of the day of battaile.

So.

To that heat we came, our Drums beat, Pikes were shaken and shiver'd, swords and Targets clash'd and clat∣ter'd, Maskets ratled, Canons roar'd, men dyed groaning. brave laced Ierkings and Feathers looked pale, totter'd ras∣cals fought pell mell; here fell a wing, there heads were ost like foot-balls; legs and armes quarrell'd in the ayre, and yet lay quietly on the earth; horses trampled upon heaps of Carkafles, Troopes of Carbines tumbled wounded from their horses; we besiege Moores, and famine us, Mu∣tinies bluster and are calme; I vow'd not to doff mine Ar∣mour, tho my flesh were frozen too't and turn'd into Iron, nor to cut head nor beard till they yeelded; my hayres and oath are of one length, for (with Caesar) thus write I mine owne story, Veni, vidi, vici.

Will you, Sir, promise to give mee freedome of speech?

Yes I will, take it, speake any thing, 'tis pardon'd.

You are a whore master; doe you send me to winne Townes for you abroad, and you lose a kingdome at home?

The fayrest in the world, the kingdome of your fame, Your honour.

Wherein?

I'le be plaine with you; much mischiefe is done by the mouth of a Canon, but the fire begins at a little touch∣hole; you heard what Nightingale sung to you even now.

Ha, ha, ha.

Angels err'd but once and fell, but you, Sir, spit in heavens face every minute, and laugh at it: laugh still; fol∣low your courses; doe; let your vices runne like your Ken∣nels of hounds yelping after you, till they plucke downe the fayrest head in the heard, everlasting blisle.

Any more?

Take sinne as the English snufte Tobacco, and scorn∣fully blew the smoake in the eyes of heaven, the vapour flyes up in clowds of bravery; but when 'tis out, the coale is blacke (your conscience,) and the pipe stinkes; a sea of Rose-water cannot sweeten your corrupted bosome.

Nay, spit thy venome.

'Tis Aqua Coelestis, no venome; for when you shall claspe up those two books, never to be open'd againe, when by letting fall that Anchor, which can never more bee weighed up, your mortall Navigation ends: then there's no playing at spurne-point with thunderbolts. A Vintner then for unconscionable reckoning, or a Taylor for unmeasura∣ble Items shall not answer in halfe that feare you must.

No more.

I will follow Truth at the heeles, tho her foot beat my gums in peeces.

The Barber that drawes out a Lions tooth Curseth his Trade; and so shalt thou.

I am bandved too much up and downe aready.

Yes, shee has beene strucke under line, master Soul∣d.

I conceit you, dare you trust your selfe alone with me?

Hence Cornego? stay Captaine: when man and wo∣man are put together, some egge of villany is sure to be sate upon.

What would you say to him should kill this man That hath you so dishonoured?

Shall I bee that Germane Fencer, and beat all the knocking boyes before me? shall I kill him?

There's musick in the tongue that dares but speak it.

That Fiddle then is in me, this arme can doo't, by ponyard, poyson, or pistoll: but shall I doo't indeed?

Yet now you would divorce all that goodnesse; and why? For a little lechery of revenge? it's a lye: the Burre that stickes in your throat is a throane; let him out of his messe of kingdomes; cut out but one, and lay Sicilia, Arra∣gon, Naples, or any else upon your trencher, and you'll prayse Bastard for the sweetest wine in the world, and call for another quart of it: 'Tis not because the man has left you, but because you are ot the woman you would be, that mads you: A shee-cuckold is an untameable monster.

aist thou ne so! give me thy goll, thou art a noble girle; I did play the Devils part, and roare in a feigned voye, but I am the honestest Devill that ever spet fire: I would not drine that infrnall draught of a Kings blood, to goe recling to damnation, for the weight of the world in Diamonds.

Here sa parcell of mans flesh has beene hanging up and downe all this morning to speake with you.

Your Verses are lam'd in some of their fect, Ma∣ster Poet.

The Poets booke, Madam, has got the Inflammati∣on of the Livor, it dyed of a burning Faver.

I beleeve you, Madam;—but here comes your Vncle.

Y'ave sheepe enow for all that, Sir; I have kill'd none tho; or if I have, mine owne blood shed in your quar∣rels, may begge my pardon; my businesse was in haste to you.

Thrive my blacke plots, the mischiefes I have set Must not so dye; Ills must new Ills beget.

Now! what hot poyson'd Custard must I put my Spoone into now?

None, for mine honour now is thy protection.

Which, Noble Souldier, she will pawne for thee, But never forfeit.

If I were, I lose nothing, I can make any Country mine: I have a private Coat for Italian Steltto's, I can be treacherous with the Wallowne, drunke with the Dutch, a Chimney-sweeper with the Irish, a Gentleman with the Welsh, and turne arrant theefe with the English, what then is my Country to me?

The Hang-man? An office that will hold so long as hempe lasts, why doe not you begge the office, Sir?

Come, I le doo't, provided I heare Iove call tho he rores; I must have the Kings hand to this war else I dare not serve it upon my Conscience

My wounded Conscience? can there your pardon help me? you not onely knocke the Ewe a'th head, but cut the Inno∣cent Lambes throat too, yet you are no Butcher.

Sweet child, within few minutes I'le change thy fate And take thee hence, but set thee at heavens gate.

The Lady Onaelia dresseth the stead of her commen∣dations in the most Courtly Attire that words can be cloth'd with, from her selfe to you, by me.

So Sir; and what disease troubles her now?

The Kings Evill; and here she hath sent something to you wrap'd up in a white sheet, you need not feare to o∣pen it, tis no coarse.

Some thinks, for heres nothing but sol-Re-me-fa-mi. What Crochet fils her head now, canst tell?

No Crochets, 'tis onely the Cliffe has made her md.

What Instrument playd she upon?

A wind instrumnt, she did nothing but sigh.

Sol, Re, me, Fa, Mi.

My wit has alwayes had a singing head, I have found out her Note Captaine.

Sol, my foule; re, is all rent and torne like a ragga∣muin; me, mend it good Captaine; fa, fa, whats fa Cap∣taine?

Fa, why farewell and be hang'd.

M, Captaine, with all my heart; haue I tickled my Ladies Fiddle well?

Oh but your sticke wants Rozen to make the strings sound clearely: no, this double Virginall, being cunningly touch'd, another manner of Iacke leaps up then is now in mine eye: Sol, Re, me, fa, mi, I have it now, Sols Rex me mseram: Alas poore Lady, tell her no Pothecary in Spaine has any of that Assafetida she writes for.

Assafetida? what s that?

A thing to be taken in a glister-pipe.

Why what ayles my Lady?

What ayles she? why when she cryes out, Solus Rex me facit mseram, she sayes in the Hypocronicall language, that she is so miserably tormented with the wind-Chollicke that it rackes her very soule.

I said somewhat cut her soule in peeces.

But goe to her, and say the Oven is heating.

And what shall be bak d in t?

Carpe pyes: and besides, tell her the hole in her Coat shall be mended: and tell her if the Dyall of good dayes goe true, why then bounce Buckrum.

The Divell lyes sicke of the Mulligrubs.

Or the Cony is dub d, and three sheepskins

With the wrong side outward

Shall make the Fox a Night-cap.

So the Goose talkes French to the Buzzard.

But, Sir, f evill dayes justle our prognostication to the wall, then say there's a fire in a Whore-masters Cod∣peece.

And a poyson'd Bagge-pudding in Tom Thumbes belly.

Is this all?

Woo't not trust an Almanacke?

Nor a Coranta neither, tho it were sal'd with But∣ter, and yet I know where they both lye passing well.

The King sends round about the Court to seek you.

Away Otterhound.

Dancing Beare, I'me gone.

No, I was striking at the two Iron Barres that hin∣der your passage, and see Sir.

What meanst thou?

The edge abated, feele.

No, no, I see it.

As blunt as Ignorance.

How? put up—So—how?

I saw by chance hanging in Cardinall Alvarez Gal∣lery a picture of hell.

So, what of that?

There lay upon burnt straw ten thousand brave fel∣lowes all starke naked, some leaning upon Crownes, some on Miters, some on bags of gold: Glory in another Corner lay like a feather beaten in the raine; Beauty was turn'd in∣to a watching Candle, that went out stinking: Ambition went upon a huge high paire of stilts, but horribly rotten; some in another nooke were killing Kings, and some ha∣ving their elbowes shov'd forward by Kings to murther o∣thers; I was (me thought) halfe in hell my selfe whilst I stod to view this peece.

Was this all?

Was't not enough to see that a man is more health∣full that eats dirty puddings, than he that feeds on a corrup∣ted Conscience.

Nay, Sir, I have search'd the records of the Low-Counties, and find that by your pardon I need not care a pinne for Goblins, and therefore I will doo't Sir. I did but re∣coyle because I was double charg'd.

No more, here comes a Satyre with sharpe hornes.

Sir here's a Frenchman charg'd with some strange Which to your close eare onely hee'll deliver, (businesse Or else to none.

A Frenchman?

We Mounsire.

Cannot he speake the Spanish?

Si Signior, vr Poco:—Monsir Acontez in de Corner, me come for offer to your Bon grace mi trezhumbla service, by gar no Iohn fidleco shall put into your neare braver Melody dan dis vn ptite pipe shall play upon to your great bon Grace.

What is the tune you'll strike up, touch the staing.

Dis; me ha run up and downe mane Countrie, and learne many fine ting, and mush knavery, now more and all dis, me know you ha jumbla de fine vench and fill her belly wid a Garsoone, her name is le Madame—

Onalia.

She by gar: Now Monsire, dis Madam send for me to helpe her Malady, being very naught of her corpes (her body) me know you no point love a dis vensh; but royall Monsire donne Moye ten towsand French Croownes she shall kicke up her taile by gar, and beshide lye dead as dog in de shannell.

As de bagge-pipe when de winde is puff, Gar beigh.

Thou nam'st ten thousand Crownes, I'le treble them Rid me but of this lprosie: thy name?

In de bowle of de bloody busher: tis very fine wholesome.

Sirra, you Salfa-Perilla Rascall, Toads-guts, you whorson pockey French Spawne of a bursten-bellyed Spy∣der, doe you heare, Monsire.

Why doe you barke and snap at my Narcissus, as if I were de Frenshe doag?

You'll poyson the honest Lady? doe but once toot into her Chamber-pot, and I'le make thee looke worse then a witch does upon a close-stoole.

The perfection of all Spanyards. Mars in little, the best booke of the art of Warre prnted in these Times: as a French Dotor I woo'd have given you pellets for pills, but as my noblest Lord, rip my heart out in your service.

With 3 good keyes to keep it from opening, an honest hart, a daring hand, and a pocket which scornes mony.

As French-men lose their haire: here was too hot staying for him.

Men show like coarses, for I meet few but are stuck with Rosemary: every one ask'd mee who was married to day, and I told 'em Adultery and Repentance, and that shame and a Hagman followed'em to Church.

Oh this Collicke of a kingdome, when the wind of treason gets amongst the small guts, what a rumbling and a roaring it keepes: and yet make the best of it you can, it goes out stinking: kill a King?

Why?

If men should pull the Sun out of heaven every time tis cclips'd, not all the Wax nor Tallow in Spaine woo'd serve to make us Candles for one yeare.

No way to purge the sicke State, but by opening a vaine.

Is that your French Physicke? if every one of us shoo'd be whip'd according to our faults, to be lasht at a carts taile would be held but a ea-biting.

If any here armes his hand to cut off the head, le him first plucke out my throat: in any Noble Act I le wade chin-deepe with you: but to kill a King?

No, heare me—

You were better, my Lord, saile 500 times to Bantom in the West-Indies, than once to Barathrum in the Low-Countries: It's hot going under the line there, the Callen∣ture of the soule is a most miserable madnesse.

Of this day? why as of a new play, if it ends well, all's well; all men are but Actors, now if you being the King, should be out of your part, or the Queene out of hers, or your Dons out of theirs, here's No wil never be out of his▪

No.

'Twere a lamentable peece of stuffe to see great Statesmen have vile Exits; but I hope there are nothing but plaudities in all your eyes.

'Tis no gobling, i, feele; your owne flesh and blood, and much younger than you tho he be bald, and cals you son; had I bin as ready to ha cut his sheeps throat, as you were to send him to the shambles, he had bleated no more; there's lesse chalke upon you score of sinnes by these round o'es.