Satiromastix – Act Four, Scene Three

Return to previous scene

Enter SIR ADAM, CRISPINUS, DEMETRIUS, BLUNT, MINIVER, PETULA, PHILOCALIA and DICACHE.

 LADIES
Thanks, good Sir Adam.

 SIR ADAM
Welcome, red-cheek’d ladies,
And welcome comely widow.  Gentlemen,
Not that our sorry banquet is put by
From stealing more sweet kisses from your lips,
Walk in my garden.  Ladies, let your eyes
Shed life into these flowers by their bright beams.
Sit, sit, here’s a large bower; here all may hear.
Now, good Crispanus, let your praise begin,
There, where it left off baldness.

 CRISPINUS
I shall win
No praise, by praising that which to dispraise
All tongues are ready, and which none would have.

 BLUNT
To prove that best by strong and armed reason
Whose part reason fears to take, cannot but prove
Your wit’s fine temper, and from these win love.

 MINIVER
I promise you has almost converted me.  I pray, bring forward your bald reasons, master poet.

 CRISPINUS
Mistress, you give my reasons proper names,
For arguments, like children, should be like
The subject that begets them.  I must strive
To crown bald heads, therefore must badly thrive.
But be it as it can.  To what before
Went arm’d at table, this force bring I more;
If a bare head, being like a dead man’s skull,
Should bear up no praise else but this; it sets
Out end before out eyes.  Should I despair
From giving baldness higher place than hair?

 MINIVER
Nay perdy, hair has the higher place.

 CRISPINUS
The goodliest and most glorious strange-built wonder
Which the great architect hath made, is heaven;
For there he keeps his court.  It is his kingdom
That’s the best masterpiece, yet ‘tis the roof
And ceiling of the world; that may be call’d
The head or crown of Earth, and yet that’s bald;
All creatures in it bald; the lovely sun
Has a face sleet as gold; the full-cheek’d moon
As bright and smooth as silver; nothing there
Wears dangling locks, but sometime blazing stars
Whose flaming curls set realms on fire with wars.
Descend more low; look through man’s fivefold sense;
Of all, the eye, bears greatest eminence;
And yet that’s bald; the hairs that like a lace
Are stitch’d unto the lids, borrow those forms
Like penthouses to save the eyes from storms.

 SIR ADAM
Right; well said.

 CRISPINUS
A head and face o’ergrown with shaggy dross,
O, ‘tis an orient pearl his all in moss;
But when the head’s all naked and uncrown’d
It is the world’s globe, even, smooth and round.
Baldness is Nature’s butt, at which out life
Shoots her land arrow.  What man ever lead
His age out with a staff, but had a head
Bare and uncover’d?  He whose years do rise
To their full height, yet not bald, is not wise.
The head is wisdom’s house, hair but the thatch.
Hair?  It’s the basest stubble, in scorn of it
This proverb sprung, “he has more hair than wit.”
Mark you not in derision how we call
A head grown thick with hair, bush natural?

 MINIVER
By your leave, master poet, but that bush natural is one a’ the trimmest and most intanglingst beauty in a woman.

 CRISPINUS
Right, but believe this, pardon me most fair,
You would have much more wit had you less hair.
I could more weary you to tell the proofs,
As they pass by, which fight on baldness’ side,
Then were you task’d to number on a head
The hairs.  I know not how your thoughts are lead
On this strong tower shall my opinion rest,
Heads thick of hair are good, but bald the best.

Whilst this paradox is in speaking, TUCCA, enters with SIR VAUGHAN at one door, and secretly placeth him; then exit and brings in, at the other door, HORACE muffled, placing him.  TUCCA sits among them.

 TUCCA
Th’art within a hair of it, my sweet wit, whether wilt thou.  My delicate poetical fury, th’ast hit it to a hair.

 SIR VAUGHAN
[Stepping out.] By your favour, Master Tucky, his bald reasons are wide aove two hairs.  I besees you pardon me, ladies, that I thrust in so malepartly among you, for I did but mich here, and see how this cruel poet did handle bald heads.

 SIR ADAM
He gave them but their due, Sir Vaughan.  Widow, did he not?

 MINIVER
By my faith, he made more of a bald head than ever i shall be able.  He have them their due truly.

 SIR VAUGHAN
Nay, ‘uds blood, their due is to be a’ the right hair as I am, and that was not in his fingers to give, but in God’a’mighties.  Well, I will hire that humourous and fantastical poet, Master Horace, to break your bald pate, Sir Adam.

 SIR ADAM
Break my bald pate?

 TUCCA
Dost hear my worshipful block-head?

 SIR VAUGHAN
Patience, Captain Tucky, let me absolve him.  I mean he shall prick, prick your head or sconce a little with his goose-quills, for he shall make another thalimum or cross-sticks, or some palinodes, with a few nappy-grams in them that shall lift up hair, and set it an end, with his learned and hearty commendations.

 HORACE
This is excellent, all will come out now.

 DICACHE
That same Horace methinks has the most ungodly face, by my fan.  It looks for all the world like a rotten russet apple when ‘tis bruis’d.  It’s better than a spoonful of cinnamon water next to heart for me to hear  him speak.  He sounds it so i’th’nose, and talks and rands for all the world like the poor fellow under Ludgate.  Oh, fie upon him!

 MINIVER
By my troth, Sweet ladies, it’s cake and pudding to me to see his face make faces when he reads his songs and sonnets.

 HORACE
I’ll face some of you for this when you shall not budge.

 TUCCA
It’s the stinking’st dung-farmer.  Foh upon him!

 SIR VAUGHAN
Foh?  Ouncles, you make him urse than old herring.  Foh?  By Sesu, I think he’s as tidy, and as tall a poet as ever drew out a long verse.

 TUCCA
The best verse that ever I knew him hack out was his white neck-verse.  Noble Ap Rees, thou wouldst scorn to lay thy lips to his commendations and thou smeld’st him out as I do; he calls the the Burning Knight of the Salamander.

 SIR VAUGHAN
Right.  Peter is my Salamander.  What of him?  But Peter is never burnt.  How now?  So, go to, now.

 TUCCA
And says because thou clipst the king’s English—

 SIR VAUGHAN
‘Ounds me?  That’s treason. Clip?  Horrible treasons.  Sesu, hold my hands.  Clip?  He baits mouse-traps for my life.

 TUCCA
Right, little Twinkler, right.  He says because thou speaks no better, thou canst not keep a good tongue in thy head.

 SIR VAUGHAN
By God, ‘tis the best tongue I can buy for love or money.

 TUCCA
He shoots at thee too, Adam Bell, and his arrows sticks here.  He calle thee bald-pate.

 SIR VAUGHAN
‘Ounds, make him prove these intolerabilities.

 TUCCA
And asks who shall carry the vinegar bottle?  And then he rhymes too’d and says Prickshaft.  Nay, Miniver, he cromples thy cap too, and—

 CRISPINUS
Come, Tucca, come, no more.  The man’s well known; thou needst not paint him.  Whom does he not wrong?

 TUCCA
Marry, himself, the ugly Pope Boniface pardons himself, and therefore my judgement is that presently he be had from hence to his place of execution, and there be stabb’d, stabb’d, stabb’d.                                      [He stabs at HORACE.

 HORACE
Oh, gentlemen, I am slain. Oh, slave art hir’d to murder me to murder me, to murder me?

 LADIES
Oh God!

 SIR VAUGHAN
‘Ounds, Captain, you have put all poetry to the dind of sword, blow wind about him.   Ladies, for our lord’s sake, you that have smocks, tear off pieces to shoot through his ‘ounds.  Is he dead and buried?  Is he?  Pull his nose, pinch, rub, rub, rub, rub.

 TUCCA
If he be not dead, look here.  I ha’ the stab and pippin for him.  If I had kill’d him, I could ha’ pleas’d the great fool with an apple.

 CRISPINUS
How now?  Be well, good Horace, here’s no wound.
Y’are slain by your own fears.  How dost thou, man?
Come, put thy heart into his place again.
Thy outside’s neither pierc’d, nor inside slain.

 SIR VAUGHAN
I am glad, Master Horace, to see you walking.

 HORACE
Gentlemen, I am black and blue the breadth of a groat.

 TUCCA
Breadth of a groat?  There a teston.  Hide thy infirmities, my scurvy Lazarus; do, hide it, lest it prove a scab in time.  hang thee, desperation, hang thee.  Thou knowst I cannot be sharp set against thee.  Look, feel my light-uptails of all, feel my weapon.

 MINIVER
Oh, most pitiful!  As blunt as my great thumb.

 SIR VAUGHAN
By Sesu, as blunt as a Welsh bag-pudding.

 TUCCA
As blunt as the top of Pauls.  ‘Tis not like thy aloe, cicatine tongue, butter.  No, ‘tis not stabber, but like thy goodly and glorious nose, blunt, blunt, blunt.  Dost roar?  Th’ast a good rouncival voice to cry lantern and candlelight.

 SIR VAUGHAN
Two ‘ords, Horace, about your ears.  How chance it passes that you bid God bow to an honest trade of building chimneys and laying down bricks, for a worse handicratness, to make nothing gbut rails.  Your muse leans upon nothing but filthy torren rails, such as sand on Paul’s head.  How chance.?

 HORACE
Sir Vaughan.

 SIR VAUGHAN
You lie, sir varlet, sir villainy.  I am Sir Salamanders.  Ounds, is my man Master Peter Salamander’s face as orse an mine?  Sentlemen all, and ladies, and you say once or twice “amen,” I will lap this little sild, this booby in his blankets again.

 OMNES
Agreed, agreed.

 TUCCA
A blanket, these crack’d Venice glasses shall fill him out; they shall toss him, hold him fast wag-tails.  So, come in, take this bandy with the racket of patience.  Why when?  Dost stamp, Man Tamberlain, dost stamp?  Thou thinkst th’ast morter under thy feet, dost?

 LADIES
Come, a bandy, ho!

 HORACE
O, hold, most sacred beauties!

 SIR VAUGHAN
Hold, silence, the puppet-teacher speaks.

 HORACE
Sir Vaughan, noble Captain, gentlemen,
Crispinus, dear Demetrius, oh redeem me
Out of this infamous.  By God, Jesu—

 CRISPINUS
Nay, swear not so good, Horace. Now, these ladies
Are made your executioners.  Prepare
To suffer like a gallant, not a coward.
I’ll try t’unloose their hands; impossible.
Nay women’s vengeance are implacable.

 HORACE
Why would you make me thus the ball of scorn?

 TUCCA
I’ll tell thee why:  because th’ast entered actions of assault and battery against a company of honourable and worshipful fathers of the law.  You wrangling rascal, law is one of the pillers a’th’land, and if thou beest bound to’t, as I hope thou shalt be, thou’t prove a skip-jack, thou’t be whipp’d.  I’ll tell thee why:  because thy sputtering chaps yelp, that arrogance and impudence and ignorance are the essential parts of a courtier.

 SIR VAUGHAN
You remember, Horace, they will punk and pink and pump you, and they catch you by the coxcomb.  On, I pray, one lash; a little more.

 TUCCA
I’ll tell thee why:  because thou criest “ptrooh!” at worshipful citizens and callst them flat-caps, cuckolds, and bankrupts and modest and virtuous wives punks and cockatrices.  I’ll tell thee why:  because th’ast arraigned two poets against all law and conscience, and not content with that, hast turn’d them amongst a company of horrible black friars.

 SIR VAUGHAN
The same hand still; it is your own another day, Master Horace, admonitions is good meat.

 TUCCA
Thou art the true arraign’d poet and shouldst have been hang’d but for one of these partakers, these charitable copper-lac’d Christians that fetch’d thee our of purgatory, players I mean, theaterians putch-mouth, stage-walkers; for this poet, for this, thou must lie with these four wenches in that blanket for this—

 HORACE
What could I do, out of a just revenge,
But bring them to the stage?  They envy me
Because I hold more worthy company.

 DEMETRIUS
Good Horace, no; my cheeks do blush for thine
As often as thou speaks so, where one true
And nobly-virtuous spirit, for thy best part
Loves thee, I wish one ten, even from my heart.
I make account I put up as deep share
In any good man’s love, which thy worth earns
As thou thyself.  We envy not to see
Thy friends with bays to crown thy poesy.
No, here the gall lies:  we that know what stuff
Thy very heart is made of, how the stalk
On which thy learning grows, and can give life
To thy, once dying, baseness; yet must we
Dance antics on your paper.

 HORACE
Fannius.

 CRISPINUS
This makes us angry, but not envious;
No, were thy warp’d soul put in a new mold
I’d wear thee as a jewel set in gold.

 SIR VAUGHAN
And jewels, Master Horace, must be hang’d, you know.

 TUCCA
Good pagans, well said; they have sowed up that broken seam-rent lie of thine, that Demetrius is out at elbows, and Crispinus is fal’n out with satin here, they have; but bloat-herring, dost hear?

 HORACE
Yes, honour’d Captain; I have ears as well.

 TUCCA
Ist not better be out at elbows, then to be a bond-slave and to go all in parchment as thou dost?

 HORACE
Parchment, Captain?  ‘Tis perpetuana, I assure you.

 TUCCA
My perpetual pantaloon, true, but ‘tis wax’d over.  Th’art made out of wax; thou must answer for this one day; thy muse is a haggler and wears clothes upon best-be-trust.  Th’art great in somebody’s books for this, thou knowest where; thou wouldst be out at elbows and out at heels too, but that thou layest about thee with a bill for this, a bill—

 HORACE
I confess, Captain, I followed this suit hard.

 TUCCA
I know thou didst, and therefore whilst we have Hiren here, speak, my little dish-washers, a verdit piss-kitchens.

 OMNES
Blanket.

 SIR VAUGHAN
Hold, I pray, hold.  By Sesu, I have put upon my head a fine device to make you laugh;  ‘tis not your fool’s cap, Master Horace, which you cover’d your poetasters in, but a fine trick, ha, ha, is jumbling in my brain.

 TUCCA
I’ll beat out thy brains, my whoreson hansom devil, but I’ll have it out of thee.

 OMNES
What is it, good Sir Vaughan?

 SIR VAUGHAN
To conclude, ‘tis after this manners, because Master Horace is ambition and does conspire to be more high and tall, as God a’mighty made him, we’ll carry his terrible person to court and there before his Majesty Dub, or what you call it, dip his muse in some liquor and christen him or dye him into colours of a poet.

 OMNES
Excellent.

 TUCCA
Super super excellent.  Revellers, go, proceed you, masters of art in kissing these wenches and in dances bring you the quivering bride to court in a mask;  come Grumboll, thou shalt mum with us; come dog me sneaks-bill.

 HORACE
Oh, thou, my muse!

 SIR VAUGHAN
Call upon God a’mighty, and no muses.  Your muse, I warrant, is otherwise occupied; there is no dealing with your muse now.  Therefore I pray, marse, marse, marse, ‘ounds your moose.        [Exeunt HORACE, SIR VAUGHAN and TUCCA.

 CRISPINUS
We shall have sport to see them.  Come, bright beauties,
The sun stoops low, and whispers in our ears
To hasten on our mask. Let’s crown this night
With choice composed wreathes of sweet delights.                                    [Exeunt.

Proceed to the next scene

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

%d bloggers like this: