Don. I warrant thee, old lad, ’tis the privilege of poor fools to talk before an intelligencer; marry, if I could fool myself into a lordship, as I know some ha’ fool’d[242] themselves out of a lordship,—were I grown some huge fellow, and got the leer of the people upon me, if the fates had so decreed it,—I should talk treason, tho’ I ne’er open’d my lips. 256
Herc. Indeed![243] fatis agimur, cedite fatis! But how runs rumour?—what breath’s strongest in the palace, now? I think you know all.
Don. Yes, we fools think we know all. The prince hath audience to-night,—is feasted, and after supper is entertain’d with no comedy, masque, or barriers; but with——
Nym. What, I prithee?
Herod. What, I prithee?
Don. With a most new and special shape of delight.
Nym. What, for Jove’s sake? 267
Don. Marry, gallants, a session, a general council of love, summon’d in the name of Don Cupid, to which, upon pain of their mistress’ displeasure, shall appear,—all favour-wearers, sonnet-mongers, health-drinkers, and
neat enrichers[244] of barbers and perfumers; and to conclude, all that can wyhee or wag the tail, are, upon grievous pains of their back, summon’d to be assistant in that session of love.
Herc. Hold! hold! Do not pall the delight before it come to our palate; and what other rumour keeps air in[245] men’s lungs?