Phy. Nay, gentle Doricus.

Dor. Ile here no more of him; nay, and your friend the author, the composer, the What You Will, seemes so faire in his owne glasse, so straight in his owne measure, that hee talkes once of squinting critickes, drunken censure, splay-footed opinion: juicles huskes, I ha done with him; I ha done with him.

Phy. Pew, nay then

Dor. As if any such unsanctified stuffe could finde a beeing monge these ingenuous breasts.

Atti. Come, let passe, let passe; lets see what stuffe must cloath our eares. What's the plaies name?

Phy. What You Will.

Dor. Ist commedy, tragedy, pastorall, morall, nocturnal, or historie?

Phy. Faith, perfectly neither, but even What You Will, -a' slight toye, lightly composed, to swiftly finisht, ill plotted, worse written, I feare me worst acted, and indeed What You Will.

Dor. Why, I like this vaine well now.

Atti. Come, wee straine the spectators patience in delaying their expected delightes. Lets place our selves within the curtaines, for good faith the stage is so very little, we shall wrong the generall eye els very much.

Phy. If youle stay but a little, Ile accompany you; I have ingag'd my selfe to the author to give a kind of inductive speech to his commedy..

Atti. Away! you neglect your selfe, a gentleman

Phy. Tut, I have vow'd it; I am double charg'd; go of as 't twil, Ile set fire to it.

Dor. Ile not stand it; may chance recoile, and be not

stuff'd with salte-peeter: well, marke the report; marke the report.

Phy. Nay, pree thee stay, slid the female presence; the Genteletza; the women will put me out.

Dor. And they strive to put thee out; doe thou indevor to put them.

Atti. In good faith, if they put thee out of countenance, put them out of patience, and hew their eares with hacking imperfect utterance.

Dor. Goe, stand to it; shew thy selfe a tall man of thy tongue; make an honest legge; put off thy cap with discreete carriage: and so we leave thee to the kinde gentlemen and most respected auditors.

[Exeunt, remanet tantum Phylomusus.

N

PROLOGUS.

OR labours hee the favor of the rude,
Nor offers sops unto the Stigian dogge,
To force a scilence in his viperous toungs;
Nor cares he to insinuate the grace

Of loath'd detraction, nor persues the love
Of the nice criticks of this squeamish age;
Nor strives he to beare up with every saile
Of floting censure; nor once dreads or cares
What envious hand his guiltles muse hath struck;
"Sweet breath from tainted stomacks who can suck?”
But to the faire proportion'd loves of witte,
To the just skale of even, paized thoughts;
To those that know the pangs of bringing forth
A perfect feature; to their gentle mindes,
That can as soone slight of as finde a blemish;
To those as humbly lowe as to their feete
I am oblig'd to bend-to those his muse
Makes solemne honour for their wish'd delight.
He vowes industrious sweat shall pale his cheeke,
But heele glose up sleeke objects for their eyes;
For those he is asham'd, his best's too badd,
A silly subject too too simply cladd,
Is all his present, all his ready pay
For many many debts. Give further day,
Ile give a proverbe,-Sufferance giveth ease :
So you may once be pai'd,-we once may please.

[Exit.

ACTUS PRIMUS.

SCENA PRIMA.

Enter QUADRATUS, PHYLUS following him with a lute; a Page going before QUADRATUS with a torch.

Phy.

O; I beseech you, Sir, reclaime his wits; My masters mad, starke mad, alasse! [for hate,

for love.

Qua. For love? Nay, and he be not mad

Tis amiable fortune. I tell thee, youth,
Right rare and geason.

Strang? Mad for love!
O show me him; Ile give him reasons straight-
So forcible, so all invincible,

That it shall drag love out. Run mad for love?
What mortally exsistes, on which our hearts

Should be inamored with such passion?

For love? Come, Phylus; come, Ile chaung his fate;

In steed of love, Ile make him mad for hate.

But, troth, say what straines his madnesse of?
Phy. Phantasticall.

Qua. Immure him; skonce him; barrecadoe him int. Phantasticall mad! thrice blessed heart!

Why harke, good Phylus (O that thy narrow sence
Could but containe me now), all that exists
Takes valuation from oppinion.

A giddy minion now. Pish! thy tast is dull,
And canst not rellish me. Come; where's Iacomo?

Enter IACOMO, unbraced, and careles drest.

Phy. Looke, where he coms. O map of boundles wo! Iaco. Yon gleame is day; darknes, sleepe, and feare, Dreames, and the ugly visions of the night,

Are beate to hell by the bright palme of light;

Now romes the swaine, and whissells up the morne :
Deepe silence breakes; all things start up with light,
Only my hart, that endles night and day,
Lies bed-red, crippeld by coy Lucea.
Qua. There's a straine, law.

Nay, now I see hee's madde most palpable;
He speakes like a player: hah! poeticall.

Iaco. The wanton spring lyes dallying with the earth,
And powers fresh bloud in her decayed vaines;
Looke how the new sapt branches are in childe
With tender infants; how the sunne drawes out,
And shapes their moysture into thousand formes
Of sprouting buddes; all things that show or breath
Are now instaur'd, saving my wretched brest,
That is eternally congeald with ice

Of froz'd dispaire. O Celia! coy, to nice.
Qua. Still, saunce question, mad?

Iaco. O where doth piety and pitty rest?

Qua. Fetch cordes; he's irrecoverable; mad, ranke mad.

He calls for strange chymeras, fictions,

That have no being since the curse of death