Volume Ix Part 88 (2/2)

APP. I am hoa.r.s.e, I tell you, and my head aches.

AUD. O, I understand thee! the first crowd was made of a horse-head.

'Tis true, the finding of a dead horse-head Was the first invention of string instruments, Whence rose the gittern, viol, and the lute: Though others think the lute was first devis'd In imitation of a tortoise-back, Whose sinews, parched by Apollo's beams, Echo'd about the concave of the sh.e.l.l: And seeing the shortest and smallest gave shrill'st sound, They found out frets, whose sweet diversity (Well-touched by the skilful learned fingers) Raiseth so strange a mult.i.tude of chords.

Which their opinion many do confirm, Because Testado signifies a lute.

But if I by no means--

APP. Nay, if you begin to critic once, we shall never have done.

[_Exit_ APPEt.i.tUS, _and carries away_ AUDITUS _perforce_.

SCAENA DECIMA.

c.r.a.pULA, _a fat-bellied slave, clothed in a light veil of sarsanet, a garland of vine-leaves on his head, &c_. SOMNUS _in a mantle of black cobweb lawn down to the foot, over a dusky-coloured taffeta coat, and a crown of poppy-tops on his head, a company of dark-coloured silk scarfs in one hand, a mace of poppy in the other, leaving his head upon a pillow on_ c.r.a.pULA'S _shoulders_.

CRA. Somnus, good Somnus, sweet Somnus, come apace!

SOM. Eh, O, O; are you sure they be so? oho, oho, oho; eh, waw?

What good can I do? ou, hoh, haw.

CRA. Why, I tell you, unless you help-- [SOMNUS _falls down and sleeps_.

Soft son of night, right heir to quietness, Labour's repose, life's best restorative, Digestion's careful nurse, blood's comforter, Wit's help, thought's charm, the stay of Microcosm, Sweet Somnus, chiefest enemy to care: My dearest friend, lift up thy lumpish head, Ope thy dull eyes, shake off this drowsiness, Rouse up thyself.

SOM. O c.r.a.pula, how now, how now! O, O, how; who's there?

c.r.a.pula, speak quickly, what's the matter?

CRA. As I told you, the n.o.ble Senses, peers of Microcosm, Will eftsoon fall to ruin perpetual.

Unless your ready helping-hand recure them.

Lately they banqueted at Gustus' table, And there fell mad or drunk, I know not whether; So that it's doubtful in these outrageous fits, That they'll murder one another.

SOM. Fear it not.

If they have 'scap'd already, bring me to them Or them to me; I'll quickly make them know The power of my large-stretched authority.

These cords of sleep, wherewith I wont to bind The strongest arm that e'er resisted me, Shall be the means whereby I will correct The Senses' outrage and distemperature.

CRA. Thanks, gentle Somnus, I'll go seek them out, And bring them to you soon as possible.

SOM. Despatch it quickly, lest I fall asleep for want of work.

CRA. Stand still, stand still! Visus, I think, comes yonder.

If you think good, begin and bind him first; For, he made fast, the rest will soon be quiet.

[_Exit_ c.r.a.pULA.

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