Aur. The mirror! there's a touch of his poetry too; he could not call it a glass. Then the rogue has the impudence to make sonnets, as he calls them; and, which is greater impudence, he sings them too; there's not a street in all Rome which he does not nightly disquiet with his villanous serenade: with that guitar there, the younger brother of a cittern, he frights away the watch; and for his violin, it squeaks so lewdly, that Sir Tibert[1] in the gutter mistakes him for his mistress. 'Tis a mere cat-call.
Cam. Is this true, Benito?
Ben. to Cam. [Aside.] My master, sir, may say his pleasure; I divert myself sometimes with hearing him. Alas, good gentleman, 'tis not given to all persons to penetrate into men's parts and qualities; but I look on you, sir, as a man of judgment, and therefore you shall hear me play and sing.
[He takes up the guitar, and begins.
Aur. Why, you invincible sot you, will nothing mend you? Lay it down, or—
Ben. to Cam. Do ye see, sir, this enemy to the muses? he will not let me hold forth to you. [Lays down the guitar.] O envy and ignorance, whither will you!—But, gad, before I'll suffer my parts to be kept in obscurity—
Aur, What will you do, rascal?
Ben. I'll take up the guitar, and suffer heroically. [He plays, Aur. kicks.
Aur. What? do you mutiny?
Ben. Ay, do, kick till your toes ache; I'll be baffled in my music by ne'er a foot in Christendom.
Aur. I'll put you out of your tune, with a vengeance to you.
[As Aurelian kicks harder, Benito sings faster, and sometimes cries out.