Sly. Why, do you think I’ll have jests broken upon me in the play, to be laughed at? this play hath beaten
all your gallants out of the feathers: Blackfriars hath almost spoiled Blackfriars for feathers.[334]
Sinklo. God’s so, I thought ’twas for somewhat our gentlewomen at home counselled me to wear my feather to the play: yet I am loth to spoil it.
Sly. Why, coz? 50
Sinklo. Because I got it in the tilt-yard; there was a herald broke my pate for taking it up: but I have worn it up and down the Strand, and met him forty times since, and yet he dares not challenge it.
Sly. Do you hear, sir? this play is a bitter play.
Condell. Why, sir, ’tis neither satire nor moral, but the mean passage of a history: yet there are a sort of discontented creatures that bear a stingless envy to great ones, and these will wrest the doings of any man to their base, malicious appliment; but should their interpretation come to the test, like your marmoset, they presently turn their teeth to their tail and eat it. 62
Sly. I will not go so far with you; but I say, any man that hath wit may censure,[335] if he sit in the twelve-penny room;[336] and I say again, the play is bitter.
Burbadge. Sir, you are like a patron that, presenting a poor scholar to a benefice, enjoins him not to rail against anything that stands within compass of his patron’s folly. Why should not we enjoy the ancient freedom of poesy? Shall we protest to the ladies that their painting makes them angels? or to my young gallant that his expenses in the brothel shall gain him reputation? No, sir, such vices as stand not accountable to law should be cured as men heal tetters, by casting ink upon them. Would you be satisfied in anything else, sir? 76
Sly. Ay, marry, would I: I would know how you came by this play?