The Devil is an Ass

by Ben Jonson

Ing. O here’s the bill, S^r. Hee giues him the Play-bill. I’, had forgot to gi’t you.

Fit. Ha? the Diuell! I will not loſe you, Sirah! But, Ingine, thinke you, 45 The Gallant is ſo furious in his folly? So mad vpon the matter, that hee’ll part With’s cloake vpo’ theſe termes?

Ing. Truſt not your Ingine, Breake me to pieces elſe, as you would doe A rotten Crane, or an old ruſty Iacke, 50 That has not one true wheele in him. Doe but talke with him.

Fit. I ſhall doe that, to ſatisfie you, Ingine, And my ſelfe too. With your leaue, Gentlemen. Hee turnes to Wittipol. Which of you is it, is ſo meere Idolater To my wiues beauty, and ſo very prodigall 55 Vnto my patience, that, for the ſhort parlee? Of one ſwift houres quarter, with my wife, He will depart with (let mee ſee) this cloake here The price of folly? Sir, are you the man?

Wit. I am that vent’rer, Sir.

Fit. Good time! your name 60 Is Witty-pol?

Wit. The ſame, S^r.

Fit. And ’tis told me, [103]  Yo’ haue trauell’d lately?

Wit. That I haue, S^r.

Fit. Truly, Your trauells may haue alter’d your complexion; But ſure, your wit ſtood ſtill.