Host. A second, a lavolteteere, a saltatory, a dancer with a Kit at his Bum, one that, by teaching great Madonnas to foot it, has miraculously purchast a ribanded Wastcote, and four clean pair of socks; a fellow that skips as he walkes, and instead of sensible discourse, vents the curious conceit of some new tune stolen from a Mask, or a bawdy dittie, elevated for the Pole Artick of a Ladies chamber, in that file stands another of your inamoratoes.
Hostess. Hang him and his Fiddle together, he never fidles any child of ours.
Host. The third, a Mongrel, got by a Switzer on an Italian; this puppy, being left well estated, comes to Florence, that the world may take notice, how impossible it is for experience to alter the course of nature; a fool (wife) and indeed, a Clown turn'd Gallant, seldom or never proves other than a gallant fool, this toy prates to little purpose other than What's a Clock? Shall's go drink? De'e forsooth? and thank ye heartily; I fear no art in him to catch thee, and yet we must be tormented with this buzard amongst the rest.
Hostess. 'Tis your own folly, forbid him the House.
Host. The fourth, a Mule-driver, a stubborn and a harsh knave: the fifth a School-Master, a very amorous Pedant, run almost mad with study of Sonnets, and Complements out of old Play-ends, the last an Advocates Clerk, that speaks pure Fustian in Law-terms: excellent Courtiers all, and all as neate as a Magnifio's post new painted, at his entrance to an office; thou shalt have none of 'em. Laugh at 'em, do. I say thou shalt have none of 'em.
Bian. Still your command to me shall stand a Law.
Host. Now they throng like so many horse-coursers at a fair, in clusters about the Man of Art, for Love-powders, ingredients, potions, counsels, postures, complements, philters: the Devil and the—How now? Tumults? Batteries, Noise? ha, get from my sight. [Clown cries within.
Enter Forobosco, and Clown, his head bloody.
Clow. Murther me, do, pound me to Mummy, do; see what will come on't.
Foro. Dog, leave thy snarling, or I'll cut thy tongue out,
Thou un[l]ickt Bear, dar'st thou yet stand my fury,
My generous rage? yet! by the sulpherous damps
That feed the hungry and incessant darkness,
Which curles around the grim Alastors back,
Mutter again, and with one powerful word,
I'll call an Host up from the Stygian Lakes,
Shall waft thee to the Acherontick fens;
Where choak't with Mists as black as thy impostures,
Thou shalt live still a dying.