Satiromastix – Act Four, Scene One

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A banquet set out; enter SIR VAUGHAN, HORACE, ASINIUS BUBO, LADY PETULA, DICACHE, PHILOCALIA, MISTRESS MINIVER and PETER FLUSH.

  SIR VAUGHAN
Ladies and sentlemen, you are almost all welcome to this sweet nuncions of plums.

 DICACHE
Almast all, Sir Vaughan?  Why, to which of us are you so niggardly that you cut her out but a piece of welcome?

 SIR VAUGHAN
My interpretations is that almost all are welcome, because I indicted a brace or two more that is not come, I am sorry, my Lady Pride is not among you.

 ASINIUS
‘Slid, he makes hounds of us, Ningle.  A brace, quoth a’?

 SIR VAUGHAN
Peter Salamanders draw out the pictures of all the joint stools, and ladies sit down upon their wooden faces.

 FLASH
I warrant, sir, I’ll give every one of them a good stool.

 SIR VAUGHAN
Master Horace, Master Horace, when I pray to God and desire in hypocritnes that bald Sir Adams were here, then, then, then begin to make your rails at the poverty and beggarly want of hair.

 HORACE
Leave it to my judgement.

 SIR VAUGHAN
Master Bubo, sit there; you and I will think upon our ends at the tables.  Master Horace, put your learned body into the midst of these ladies; so, ‘tis no matter to speak graces at nuncions, because we are all past grace since dinner.

 ASINIUS
Mass, I thank my destiny I am not past grace, for by this hand full of caraways, I could never abide to say grace.

 DICACHE
Mistress Miniver, is not that innocent gentleman a kind of fool?

 MINIVER
Why do you ask, madam?

 DICACHE
Nay for no harm.  I ask because I thought you two had been of acquaintance.

 MINIVER
I think he’s within an inch of a fool.

 DICACHE
Madam Philocalia, you sit next that spare gentleman.  Would you heard what Mistress Miniver says of you.

 PHILOCALIA
Why, what says she, Madam Dicache?

 DICACHE
Nay nothing, but wishes you were married to that small timber’d gallant.

 PHILOCALIA
You wish and mine are twins.  I wish so too, for then I should be sure to lead a merry life.

 ASINIUS
Yes, faith, lady.  I’d make you laugh; my bolts now and then should be some shot; by these combits we’d let all slide.

 PETULA
He takes the sweetest oaths that ever I heard a gallant of his pitch swear.  By these comfits, and these caraways, I warrant it does him good to swear.

 ASINIUS
Yes, faith, ‘tis meat and drink to me.  I am glad, Lady Petula, by this apple, that they please you.

 SIR VAUGHAN
Peter Salamander’s wine.  I beseech you, Master Asinius Bubo, not to swear do deeply for there comes no fruit of.  Here, ladies, Iput you all into one corners together; you shall all drink of one cup.

 ASINIUS
Peter, I prithee, fill me out one too.

 FLASH
I’d fling you out too and I might ha’ my will; a pox of all fools.

 SIR VAUGHAN
Mistress Minivers, pray be lusty.  Would Sir Adams Prickshaft stuck by you.

 HORACE
Who, the bald knight, Sir Vaughan?

 SIR VAUGHAN
The same, Master Horace.  He that has but a remnant or parcel of hair; his crown is clipp’d and par’d away.  Methinks ‘tis an excellent quality to be bald; for and there stuck a nose and two nyes in his pate, he might wear two faces under one hood.

 ASINIUS
As God save me la, if i might ha’ my will, I’d rather be a bald gentleman then a hairy, for I am sure the best and tallest yeomen in England have bald heads.  Methinks hair is a scurvy lousy commodity.

HORACE
Bubo, herein you blaze your ignorance.

 SIR VAUGHAN
Pray, stop and fill your mouths, and give Master Horace all your ears.

 HORACE
For, if of all the body’s parts, the head
Be the most royal; if discourse, wit, judgement,
And all our understanding faculties
Sit there in their high court of parliament,
Enacting laws to sway this humorous world;
This little Isle of Man; needs must that crown
Which stands upon this supreme head be fair
And held invaluable, and that crown’s the hair;
The head that wants this honour stands awry;
Is bare in name and in authority.

 SIR VAUGHAN
He means bald pates, Mistress Minivers.

 HORACE
Hair, ‘tis the robe which curious Nature weaves,
To hang upon the head, and does adorn
Our bodies in the first hour we are born.
God does bestow that garment; when we die,
That, like a soft and silken canopy,
Is still spread over us.  In spite of death,
Our hair grows in our grave, and that alone
Looks fresh, when all our other beauty’s gone.
The excellence of hair in this shines clear:
That the four elements take pride to wear
The fashion of it; when fire most bright does burn,
The flames to golden locks do strive to turn;
When her lascivious arms the water hurls
About the shore’s waist, her sleek head she curls;
And rorid clouds being suck’d into the air
When down they melt, hangs like fine silver hair;
You see the earth, whose head so oft is shorn,
Frighted to feel her locks so rudely torn,
Stands with her hair an end, and, thus afraid,
Turns every hair to a green naked blade.
Besides, when, struck with grief, we long to die,
We spoil that most, which most does beautify;
We rend this head-tire off.  I thus conclude,
Colours set colours out; our eyes judge right,
Of vice or virtue by their opposite;
So, if fair hair to beauty add such grace,
Baldness must needs be ugly, vile and base.

 SIR VAUGHAN
True, Master Horace, for a bald reason is a reson that has no hairs upon’t; a scurvy scalded reason.

 MINIVER
By my truly, I never thought you could ha’ pick’d such strange things out of hair before.

 ASINIUS
Nay, my Ningle can tickle it when he comes to’t.

 MINIVER
Troth, I shall never be enamel’d of a bare-headed man for this, what shift so ever I make.

 SIR VAUGHAN
Then, Mistress Miniver, Sir Adams Prickshaft must not hit you.  Peter, take up all the clothes at the table and the plums.

Enter TUCCA and his Boy.

 TUCCA
Save thee, my little worshipful harper; how do ye my little cracknels?  How do you?

 SIR VAUGHAN
Welcome, Master Tucca.  Sit and shoot into your belly some sugar pellets.

 TUCCA
No, Godamercy, Cadwallader.  How do you, Horace?

 HORACE
Thanks, good Captain.

 TUCCA
Where’s the string thou carriest about thee?  O, have I found thee my scowring-stick?  What’s my name, Bubo?

 ASINIUS
Would I were hang’d if I can call you any names but Captain and Tucca.

 TUCCA
No, Fie’st,  My name’s Hamlet’s Revenge.  Thou hast been at Paris garden, hast not?

 HORACE
Yes, Captain, I ha’ play’d Zulziman there.

 SIR VAUGHAN
Then, Master Horace, you play’d the part of an honest man.

 TUCCA
Death of Hercules; he could never play that part well in’s life.  No, Fulkes, you could not.  Thou callst Demetrius’ journeyman poet, but thou putst up a supplication to be a poor journeyman player and hadst been still so but that thou couldst not set a good face upon’t.; thou hast forgot how thou amblest, in leather pilch, by a play-wagon in the highway, and tookst mad Jeronimoes part, to get service among the mimics; and when the stagerites hanish’d thee into the Ile of Dogs, thou turndst ban-dog, villainous Guy, and ever since bitest; therefore I ask if th’ast been at Paris Garden, because thou hast such a good mouth, thou baitst well.  Read, lege, save thyself and read.

 HORACE
Why, Captain, these are epigrams compos’d to you.

 TUCCA
Go not out, farding candle, go not out, for trusty D’Amboys now the deed is done.  I’ll pledge this epigram in wine; I’ll swallow it, I, yes.

 SIR VAUGHAN
God bless us, will he be drunk with nittigrams now.

 TUCCA
So, now arise, sprite a’th’butt’ry; no herring-bone, I’ll not pull thee out; but arise, dear Echo, rise, rise devil or I’ll conjure thee up.

 MINIVER
Good Master Tucca, let’s ha’ no conjuring here.

 SIR VAUGHAN
‘Ud’s blood, you scald gouty Captain!  Why come you to set encumbrances here between the ladies?

 TUCCA
Be not so tart, my precious metheglin, be not, my old whore a’ Babylon.  Sit fast.

 MINIVER
O Jesu!  If I know whereabouts in London Babylon stands.

 TUCCA
Feed and be fat, my fair Calypolis; stir not beauteous wriggle-tails.  I’ll disease none of you.  I’ll take none of you up, but only this table-man.  I must enter him into some filthy sink-point, I must.

 HORACE
Captain, you do me wrong thus to disgrace me.

 TUCCA
Thou thinkst thou mayst be as saucy with me as my buff jerkin, to sit upon me, dost?

 HORACE
Damn me, if ever I traduc’d your name,
What imputation can you charge me with?

 SIR VAUGHAN
‘Sblood, ay, what computations can you lay to his sarge?  Answer, or by Sesu, I’ll canvas your coxcomb, Tucky!

 MINIVER
If they draw sweet hearts, let us shift for ourselves.

 TUCCA
My noble swaggerer, I will not fall out with thee.  I cannot, my mad cumrade, find in my hear to shed thy blood.

 SIR VAUGHAN
Cumrade?   By Sesu, call me cumrade again and I’ll cumrade ye about the sins and shoulders.  Ownds, what come you to smell out here?  Did you not dine and feed horribly well today at dinner, but you come to munch here and give us winter-plumes?  I pray, depart; go marse, marse, marse out a doors.

 TUCCA
Adieu, Sir Eglamour, adieu Lute-string, Curtain-rod, Goose-quill; here, give that full-nos’d skinker these rhymes; and hark, I’ll tag my codpiece point with thy legs; spout-pot, I’ll empty thee.

 ASINIUS
Dost threaten me?  God’s lid, I’ll bind thee to the good forbearing!

 SIR VAUGHAN
Will you amble, Hobby-horse?  Will you trot and amble?

 TUCCA
Raw artichoke, I shall sauce thee!                                                [Exit.

 MINIVER
I pray you, Master Tucca, will you send me the first pound you borrowed on me?  O, you cannot hear now, but I’ll make you hear me and feel me too in another place; to your shame, I warrant you.  Thou shalt not cony-catch me for five pounds.  He took it up, Sir Vaughan, in your name; he swore you sent for it to mum withal. ‘Twas five pound in gold, as white as my kercher.

 SIR VAUGHAN
Ownds!  Five pound in my name to mum about withal!

 MINIVER
Ay, to mum withal, but he plays mum-budget with me.

 SIR VAUGHAN
Peter Salamander, tie up your great and your little sword, by Sesu, I’ll go sing him while ‘tis hot.  I’ll beat five pound out of his leather pilch.  Master Horace, let you wits inhabit in your right places; if I fall sansomely upon the widow.  I have some cousins German at court, shall beget you the reversion of the master of the king’s revels, or else be his lord of misrule now at Christmas.  Come, ladies.  Whoreson, straggling Captain; I’ll pound him!          [Exeunt. Manet HORACE and ASINIUS.

 HORACE
How now?  What ailst thou, that thou lookst so pale?

 ASINIUS
Nay, nothing but I am afraid the Welsh knight has given me nothing but purging comfits; this Captain sticks pockily in my stomach.  Read this scroll; he says they’re rhymes, and bid me give them you.

 HORACE
Rhymes?  ‘Tis a challenge sent to you.

 ASINIUS
To me?

 HORACE
He says here you divulg’d my epigrams.

 ASINIUS
And for that dares he challenge me?

 HORACE
You see he dares, but dare you answer him?

 ASINIUS
I dare answer his challenge, by word of mouth, or by writing, but i scorn to meet him.  I hope he and I are not parallels.

 HORACE
Dear Bubo, thou shalt answer him; our credits
Lie pawn’d upon thy resolution,
Thy valour must redeem them; charge thy spirits
To wait more close, and near thee.  If he kill thee,
I’ll not survive; into one lottery
We’ll cast out fates; together live and die.

 ASINIUS
Content.  I owe God a death, and if he will make me pay’d against my will, I’ll say ‘tis hard dealing                                                   [Exeunt.

Proceed to the next scene

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