Volume Vii Part 27 (1/2)

CURTALL. These are very indiscreet counsels, neighbour Poppey, and I will follow your misadvis.e.m.e.nt.

POPPEY. I tell you, goodman Curtall, the wench hath wrong. O vain world, O foolish men! Could a man in nature cast a wench down, and disdain in nature to lift her up again? Could he take away her dishonesty without bouncing up the banns of matrimony? O learned poet, well didst thou write fustian verse.

_These maids are daws That go to the laws, And a babe in the belly_.

CURTALL. Tut, man, 'tis the way the world must follow, for

_Maids must be kind, Good husbands to find_.

POPPEY. But mark the fierse[164],

_If they swell before, It will grieve them sore_.

But see, yond's Master Sylla: faith, a pretty fellow is a.

SYLLA. What seek my countrymen? what would my friends?

CURTALL. Nay, sir, your kind words shall not serve the turn: why, think you to thrust your soldiers into our kindred with your courtesies, sir?

POPPEY. I tell you, Master Sylla, my neighbour will have the law: he had the right, he will have the wrong; for therein dwells the law.

CONSUL. What desire these men of Rome?

CURTALL. Neighbour, sharpen the edge-tool of your wits upon the whetstone of indiscretion, that your words may s.h.i.+ne like the razors of Palermo[165]: [_to_ POPPEY] you have learning with ignorance, therefore speak my tale.

POPPEY. Then, wors.h.i.+pful Master Sylla, be it known unto you, That my neighbour's daughter Dority Was a maid of restority; Fair, fresh, and fine As a merry cup of wine; Her eyes like two potch'd eggs, Great and goodly her legs; But mark my doleful ditty, Alas! for woe and pity!

A soldier of your's Upon a bed of flowers Gave her such a fall, As she lost maidenhead and all.

And thus in very good time I end my rudeful rhyme.

SYLLA. And what of this, my friend? why seek you me, Who have resign'd my t.i.tles and my state, To live a private life, as you do now?

Go move the Consul Flaccus in this cause, Who now hath power to execute the laws.

CURTALL. And are you no more master dixcator, nor generality of the soldiers?

SYLLA. My powers do cease, my t.i.tles are resign'd.

CURTALL. Have you signed your t.i.tles? O base mind, that being in the Paul's steeple of honour, hast cast thyself into the sink of simplicity.

Fie, beast!

Were I a king, I would day by day Suck up white bread and milk, And go a-jetting in a jacket of silk; My meat should be the curds, My drink should be the whey, And I would have a mincing la.s.s to love me every day.

POPPEY. Nay, goodman Curtall, your discretions are very simple; let me cramp him with a reason. Sirrah, whether is better good ale or small-beer? Alas! see his simplicity that cannot answer me: why, I say ale.

CURTALL. And so say I, neighbour.

POPPEY. Thou hast reason; ergo, say I, 'tis better be a king than a clown. Faith, Master Sylla, I hope a man may now call ye knave by authority.

SYLLA. With what impatience hear I these upbraids, That whilom plagued the least offence with death.

O Sylla, these are stales of destiny By some upbraids to try thy constancy.

My friends, these scorns of yours perhaps may move The next dictator shun to yield his state, For fear he find as much as Sylla doth.

But, Flaccus, to prevent their farther wrong, Vouchsafe some lictor may attach the man, And do them right that thus complain abuse.

FLACCUS. Sirrah, go you and bring the soldier, That hath so loosely lean'd to lawless l.u.s.t: We will have means sufficient, be a.s.sured, To cool his heat, and make the wanton chaste.

CURTALL. We thank your masters.h.i.+p. Come, neighbour, let us jog.