ANTH. His stomach bears not long the wrongs he swallows,

But, if you'll not be counsell'd, take what follows. He'll strait be all for plunder and for forage.

CLEO. Cæsar may spare his breath to cool his

porridge;

He'll be the worse the more one him beseeches. ANTH. Chuck, I have done! I see you'll wear the breeches.

CESAR. What have I heard? shall it be said in hist❜ries,

That Marcus Tony squabl'd with his mistress?
If love be out of joint, I'll be the joiner;

Say, son of Sceptre,-speak! thou Monarch-minor!
Shall lovers fall to scratch like midnight pusses ?
Let's turn their frowns and wrath to leers and busses.
PTOL. Most puissant plund'rer! know the short
and long is,

That all who know thee find thy breath so strong is,
As merely with a word it quells the mighty,
And stuns them past the cure of aqua-vitæ.

CLEO. Egypt's no fool for Rome to put her tricks on,

And you Ishall find that I can be a vixen.

Must warbling Eunuch die, who ne'er was sick long And sing short psalm in rope, who taught me prick-song?*

PTOL. Shall he who can read, and love lessons taught her,

Be now denied book, and die for man-slaughter? ANTH. Cæsar, things are not as th' world now

supposes;

The case seems plain as on your face your nose is.

* Prick-song was distinguished from plain song in respect of the harmony being written or pricked down, whereas the latter was at the will of the singer-a species of extempore music.

Great Pompey near shore for poultry was gaping, Did count without host, and so was tane napping. CLEO. What Eunuch has done, he did for your sake, then :

As Pompey did brew he made him to bake, then. CÆSAR. Let Memphion mistress look but blithe and bonny,

On Cæsar smile, as she does smerk on Tony, Then Eunuch plump shall live, and grow still thicker,

Like hostess fat, who sits in chair of wicker.

CLEO. Cæsar, gramercy! you now show your breeding:

Invite him, sweet heart, I pray to our wedding!
I thought my self truly quite under hatches.
But now call maid to bring her Queen new patches,
Bring kerchief lac'd! I'll no more be a mourner!
And Cæsar, you shall find- a friend in corner.
ANTH. Great son of slaughter leers! he'd fain
be at her.

I'll dash his chops, if's mouth begin to water.

Enter CORNELIA.

CESAR. Sly scowling look, though men of Mars ne'er mind it,

;

*

Hat black and broad, long cypress down behind it
Gown short and loose, and her hair under pinner,"
As if locks on cheek were token of a sinner,
Where bodkin is stuck in fashion so oddly,
As though, out of zeal, dame laid the French mode

by.

'Mass! now I think on't, 'tis Pompey's rich widow ANTH. Of mumping minx would we were fairly rid, ho!

*The lappet of a head loose-flying.

Her goodly countenance I've seen,

Set off with kerchief starch'd, and pinners clcan. -- Gay.

245122

CLEO. Lord, how she looks! she could cut us in collops :

Shall Tony and I fear ev'ry fat trollop's?

Like hard hearted heart* she over us hovers,
As kite watches chickens she watches lovers.

CORN. What, have I caught ye? how all of ye stare on't,

I' faith I'll to Rome, and there do your errand!
By Senate y'are sent to follow your calling,
They think you are now their enemies mauling ;
Man, woman, and child, you chief should be killing,
But 'stead of bombasting you are a billing

With Queen who should be her parish's pattern, Good housewife in house not saunt'ring young slattern.

CLEO. Bodikins! pray why agog, Mistress Pompey?

As high as you are, a Joan may out-jump ye.
Be an example before y'are a tut'ress!

You want a Tarquin to make you a Lucrece! CORN. Marry come up! Goodman Ptolemy's daughter,

Faith, in your wine I perhaps may put water;
For all your new gown y'are but a black gypsey,
Sure Tony and you have drunk till your tipsy ;
Nay take the whole mess y'have yet but a spoonful,
I'll bate not an ace,† as widow of consul.

For though you now perk it, as daughter of King,
By'rlady, I'll give you as good as you bring:
I know your back's broad enough, I'll put you to't.
CLEO. Well, gossip, I know too the length of
your foot.

CÆSAR. Hey for Cornelia! she's still for old
Rome.

CORN. Cæsar, yo'd cog now, but some wiser than

Your crony and you in Egypt now flaunt it,
Spending like roysters, whilst honest men want it.
Leave off your hect'ring with heirs whilst you fool
'um,

And drinking beer-glasses super naculum;
Drowning of sorrow like negligent debtors,
Sending to provinces short begging letters,
Which being denied, then with armies you go
And take what you'll pay back to-morrow to mow.
CESAR. Your tippet's up, but Bilbo wights ne'er

mind ye,

Turn buckle of girdle, wear it behind ye.

*

ANTH. Let gossips shake hands, and Cæsar appoint her

Some blade that has house to make her a jointure. Widow, be friends! make no more such a hot coil; We'll find out rich husband to make you the pot boil.

CLEO. If the wound be sew'd up I'll not unrip it, I'll keep my tongue in, if she'll pin down tippet. CÆSAR. Proud Pompey, whom now we never shall lack more,

Came in at a gate, sneakt out at a back door: Great was the mortal, and long cock-a-hoop too, But down he did fall, whom all men did stoop to. Yet fortune has done but what does become her; In winter w'are hay and grass in the summer.

CORN. In troth, it is true! we are of that sort all! Then farewell, sweet Pompey! since thou wert but mortal.

CLEO. Well said, Cornelia, I see you are heart whole,

Hang up all care, which from body would part soul! Where are the fiddlers? what tune shall we fix on? Faith! let's have the round of merry Mall Dixon.

*"If you are angry turn the buckle of your belt behind you."-Sir Walter Scott's Rob Roy.

CESAR. Call in the fiddlers! but hark

Tony,

Whilst now I think on't, have you any money?
For though in war I did bear all before me,
Cash stays behind, and I'm fain to cry
"score me !"
ANTH. Cæsar, my plunder, I speak it with

sorrow,

Is squander'd with girls, and I'm forced now to borrow.

Yes! let 'em play at but princum and prancum,
And we'll pay at last, or else we'll thank 'um.

THE DANCE.

CÆSAR. Let's to the ale-house go, where tapsters
know me;

Fat hostess there will trust; lead, King Ptolomey !
Fiddlers will thither come, and never grumble ;
In Play-house they are proud, in ale-house humble.
Gossips shall tattle there, while tongues will wag on,
And to my Gipsey's health I'll drink a flagon.
[Exeunt.

HOUS.-K. What! is all done?

PLAY.

Ay, and we-are undone !

Such a sad coil was ne'er before in London.

Somebody has let our neighbours in—and we
Have been, in toto, mulcted of our fee.

'Slight the house is e'en full-Well; that's no crime

Free now, they're free to pay another time.

So stop 'em! they're like to hear, if they will stay, An Epilogue, since they have seen a play.

[Exeunt omnes.