WHAT YOU WILL.

WHAT YOU WILL.

INDUCTION.

¶ Before the musicke sounds for the Acte, enter ATTICUS, DORICUS, and PHYLOMUSE; they sit a good while on the Stage before the candles are lighted, talking together, and on suddeine DORICUS speakes.

Dor.

¶ Enter Tier-man with lights.

FIE, some lights! Sirs, fie! let there be no deeds of darknesse done among us. I-so, so, pree thee, Tyer-man, set Sineor Snuffe a fier: he's a chollerick gentleman; he will take pepper in the nose instantly; feare not. Fore Heaven, I wonder they tollerate him so nere the stage.

Phy. Faith, Doricus, thy braine boiles; keele it, keele it, or all the fatt's in the fire; in the name of Phoebus, what merry genius haunts thee to-day? Thy lips play with feathers.

Dor. Troth, they should pick straws before they should be idle.

Atti. But why-but why doost thou wonder they dare suffer Snuffe so neere the stage?

Dor. O, well recald; marry, Sir Sineor Snuffe, Mounsieur Mew, and Cavaliero Blirt, are three of the most to bee fear'd auditors that ever

Phy. Pish! for shame! stint thy idle chatte.

Dor. Nay, dreame what-so-ere your fantasie swimmes on, Phylomuse; I protest, in the love you have procured mee to beare your friend the author, I am vehemently fearefull this threefold halter of contempt that choakes the breath of witte, these aforesaid tria sunt omnia, knights of the meaw, will sitt heavie on the skirtes of his sceanes, if

Phy. If what? Beleeve it, Doricus, his spirit
Is higher blouded then to quake and pant
At the report of Skoffes artillery.

Shall he be creast-falne, if some looser braine,
In flux of witte uncively befilth

His slight composures? Shall his bosome faint,
If drunken Censure belch out sower breath
From Hatreds surfet on his labours front?
Nay, say some halfe a dozen rancorous breasts
Should plant them-selves on purpose to discharge
Imposthum'd malice on his latest sceane,

Shall his resolve be struck through with the blirt
Of a goose breath? What imperfect borne,
What short-liv'd meteor; what cold-harted snow
Would melt in dolor; cloud his mudded eyes,
Sinck downe his jawes, if that some juicles husk,
Some boundlesse ignorance, should on sudden shoote
His grosse knob'd burbolt with-"Thats not so good,
Mew, blirt, ha, ha, light chaffy stuff!"

Why, gentle spirits, what loose waving fane,
What any thing, would thus be skru'd about
With each slight touch of od phantasmatas?
No, let the feeble palseid lamer joynts
Leane on opinions crutches; let the

Dor. Nay, nay, nay. Heavens my hope, I cannot smoth this straine;

Witts death, I cannot. What a leaprous humor
Breaks from ranke swelling of these bubbling wits?
Now out up-pont, I wonder what tite braine,
Wrung in this custome to mainetaine contempt
Gainst common censure; to give stiffe counter buffes,
To crack rude skorne even on the very face
Of better audience. Slight, ist not odious?
Why, harke you, honest, honest Phylomuse
(You that indeavor to indeere our thoughts
To the composers spirit), hold this firme:
Musike and poetry were first approv'd

By common scence; and that which pleased most,
Held most allowed passe: not rules of art

Were shapt to pleasure, not pleasure to your rules;
Thinke you, if that his sceanes tooke stampe in mint
Of three or foure deem'd most juditious,

It must inforce the world to currant them,
That you must spit defiance on dislike?
Now, as I love the light, were I to passe
Through publick verdit, I should feare my forme,
Least ought I offerd were unsquard or warp'd.
"The more we know, the more we know we want :
What bayard boulder then the ignorant ?
Beleeve me, Phylomuse, ifaith thou must,
The best best seale of wit is wits distrust."