||Every Man out of his Humour.|
And to your Back will turn the Tail, and sting|
More deadly than a Scorpion: Stay, who's this?
Now for my Soul another minion
Of the old Lady Chance's: I'll observe him.
Act I. Scene III.
Sordido, Macilente, Hine.
Rare! good, good, good, good, good! I thank my
Stars, I thank my Stars for it.
Maci. Said I not true? doth not his passion speak
Out of my divination? O my senses,
Why lose you not your powers, and become
Dull'd, if not deaded with this spectacle?
I know him, 'tis Sordido, the Farmer,
A Boar, and Brother to that Swine was here.
Sord. Excellent, excellent, excellent! as I would wish,
as I would wish.
Maci. See how the strumpet Fortune tickles him,
And makes him swoun with laughter, O, O, O.
Sord. Ha, ha, ha, I will not sow my Grounds this
year. Let me see what Harvest shall we have? June,
Maci. What is't, a Prognostication raps him so?
Sord. The xx, xxi, xxii days, Rain and Wind, O
good, good! the xxiii, and xxiv, Rain and some Wind,
good! the xxv, Rain, good still! xxvi, xxvii, xxviii,
Wind and some Rain; would it had been Rain and
some Wind: well 'tis good (when it can be no better,)
xxix, inclining to Rain: inclining to Rain? that's not
so good now: xxx, and xxxi, Wind and no Rain: no
Rain? 'Slid stay; this is worse and worse: what says
he of Saint Swithins? turn back, look, Saint Swithins:
Maci. O, here's a precious durty damned Rogue.
That fats himself with expectation
Of rotten Weather, and unseason'd Hours;
And he is rich for it, and elder Brother!
His Barns are full! his Reeks and Mows well trod!
His Garners crack with store! O, 'tis well; ha, ha, ha:
A Plague consume thee, and thy House.
Sord. O, here, St. Swithins, the xv day, variable Wea-
ther, for the most part Rain, good; for the most part
Rain: why, it should Rain forty days after, now, more
or less, it was a rule held, afore I was able to hold a
Plough, and yet here are two days no Rain; ha? it makes
me muse. We'll see how the next Month begins, if that
be better. September, first, second, third, and fourth days,
rainy and blustering; this is well now: fifth, sixth, se-
venth, eighth, and ninth, rainy, with some Thunder; I
marry, this is excellent; the other was false printed sure:
the tenth and eleventh, great store of Rain; O good, good,
good, good, good! the twelfth, thirteenth, and fourteenth
days, Rain; good still: fifteenth, and sixteenth, Rain;
good still: seventeenth and eighteenth, Rain, good still;
nineteenth and twentieth, good still, good still, good still,
good still, good still! one and twentieth, some Rain;
Heavens pleasure, would it were more though: the one
and twentieth, two and twentieth, three and twentieth,
great Tempests of Rain, Thunder, and Lightning.
O good again, past expectation good!
I thank my blessed Angel; never, never
Laid I Penny better out than this,
To purchase this dear Book: not dear for price,
And yet of me as dearly priz'd as Life,
Since in it, is contain'd the very Life,
Blood, Strength, and Sinews of my Happiness.
Blest be the hour, wherein I bought this Book:
His studies happy that compos'd the Book.
And the Man fortunate that sold the Book.
Sleep with this Charm, and be as true to me,
As I am joy'd, and confident in thee.
Maci. Ha, ha, ha? I' not this good? Is't not pleasing
[The Hinde enters with a Paper.
Ha, ha, ha! God pardon me! ha, ha!
Is't possible that such a spacious Villain
Should live, and not be plagu'd? or lies he hid
Within the wrinckled Bosom of the World,
Where Heaven cannot see him? why, (methinks)
'Tis rare, and strange, that he should breathe, and walk,
Feed with disgestion, sleep, enjoy his Health,
And (like a boist'rous Whale, swallowing the poor)
Still swim in Wealth and Pleasure! is't not strange?
Unless his House and Skin were Thunder-proof,
I wonder at it! Methinks, now, the Hectick,
Gout, Leprosie, or some such loath'd Disease,
Might light upon him; or that Fire (from Heaven)
Might fall upon his Barns; or Mice and Rats
Eat up his Grain; or else that it might rot
Within the hoary Reeks, e'en as it stands:
Methinks this might be well; and after all
The Devil might come and fetch him. I, 'tis true!
Mean time he surfeits in Prosperity,
And thou (in envy of him) gnaw'st thy self:
Peace, Fool, get hence, and tell thy vexed spirit,
"Wealth in this Age will scarcely look on merit.
Sord. Who brought this same, Sirrah?
Hine. Marry, Sir, one of the Justices Men, he says 'tis
a Precept, and all their Hands be at it.
Sord. I, and the prints of them stick in my Flesh,
Deeper than i'their Letters: They have sent me
Pills wrapt in Paper here, that should I take 'em,
Would poyson all the sweetness of my Book,
And turn my Honey into Hemlock-juyce.
But I am wiser than to serve their Precepts,
Or follow their Prescriptions. Here's a device,
To charge me bring my Grain unto the Markets:
I, much, when I have neither Barn nor Garner,
Nor Earth to hide it in, I'll bring it; till then,
Each Corn I send shall be as big as Pauls.
O, but (say some) the poor are like to starve.
Why let 'em starve, what's that to me? are Bees
Bound to keep life in Drones and idle Moths? no:
Why such are these (that term themselves the Poor,
Only because they would be pitied,
But are indeed a sort of lazy Beggars)
Licencious Rogues, and sturdy Vagabonds,
Bred (by the sloth of a fat plenteous Year)
Like Snakes in heat of Summer, out of Dung;
And this is all that these cheap times are good for:
Whereas a wholsom and penurious Dearth
Purges the Soil of such vile excrements,
And kills the Vipers up. Hine. O, but Master,
Take heed they hear you not. Sord. Why so?
Hine. They will exclaim against you.
Sord. I, their exclaims
Move me as much, as thy Breath moves a Mountain!
Poor Worms, they hiss at me, whilst I at home
Can be contented to applaud my self,
To sit and clap my Hands, and laugh and leap.
Knocking my Head against my Roof, with joy
To see how plump my Bags are, and my Barns.
Sirrah, go, hie you home, and bid your fellows,
Get all their Flayls ready again' I come.
Hine. I will, Sir.
Sord. I'll instantly set all my Hines to thrashing
Of a whole reek of Corn, which I will hide
Under the Ground; and with the Straw thereof
I'll stuff the out-sides of my other Mows:
That done, I'll have 'em empty all my Garners,
And i' the friendly Earth bury my store,
That, when the Searchers come, they may suppose
All's spent, and that my Fortunes were belyed.
And to lend more opinion to my want.
And stop that many-mouthed vulgar Dog,
(Which else would still be baying at my Door)