Part 8 (2/2)

_Stre._ A thousand, man, a thousand.

_Fool._ Itching Airs Alluding to the old sport.

_Stre._ Of all sizes.

_Fool._ And how does small _Tym Treble_ here; the heart on't?

_2 Boy._ To do you service.

_Fool._ O _Tym_ the times, the times _Tym_.

_Stre._ How does the General, And next what money's stirring?

_Chi._ For the General He's here, but such a General!

The time's chang'd, _Stremon_, He was the liberal General, and the loving, The feeder of a Souldier, and the Father, But now become the stupid'st.

_Stre._ Why, what ails he?

_Chi._ Nay, if a Horse knew, and his head's big enough, I'le hang for't; did'st thou ever see a Dog Run mad o'th' tooth-ache, such another toy Is he now, so he glotes and grins, and bites.

_Fool._ Why hang him quickly, And then he cannot hurt folks.

_Chi._ One hour raving, Another smiling, not a word the third hour, I tell thee _Stremon_ h'as a stirring soul, What ever it attempts or labours at Would wear out twenty bodies in another.

_Fool._ I'le keep it out of me, for mine's but Buckram, He would bownce that out in two hours.

_Chi._ Then he talks The strangest and the maddest stuff from reason, Or any thing ye offer; stand thou there, I'le show thee how he is, for I'le play _Memnon_ The strangest General that ere thou heardst of, _Stremon_.

_Stre._ My Lord.

_Chi._ Go presently and find me A black Horse with a blew tail; bid the blank Cornet Charge through the Sea, and sink the Navy: softly, Our souls are things not to be waken'd in us With larums, and loud bawlings, for in _Elyzium_ Stilness and quietness, and sweetness, Sirra, I will have, for it much concerns mine honour, Such a strong reputation for my welcome As all the world shall say: for in the forefront So many on white Unicorns, next them My Gentlemen, my Cavaliers and Captains, Ten deep and trapt with Tenter-hooks to take hold Of all occasions: for Friday cannot fish out The end I aim at; tell me of _Diocles_, And what he dares do? dare he meet me naked?

Thunder in this hand? in his left--Fool--

_Fool._ Yes, Sir.

_Chi._ Fool, I would have thee fly i'th' Air, fly swiftly To that place where the Sun sets, there deliver.

_Fool._ Deliver? what, Sir?

_Chi._ This Sir, this ye slave, Sir, [_All laugh._ Death ye rude Rogues, ye Scarabe's.

_Fool._ Hold for Heav'ns sake, Lieutenant, sweet Lieutenant.

_Chi._ I have done, Sir.

_Boy._ You have wrung his neck off.

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