Lav. Tut, via! Let all run glib and square.
Qua. Uds fut! He coggs and cheats your simpler thoughts,
My spleen’s a-fire in the heat of hate;
I bear these gnats that hum about our ears,
And blister[442] our credits in obscured shades.
Lav. Pewte bougra! La, la, la! Tit! Shaugh!
Shall I forbear to caper, sing, or vault?
To wear fresh clothes, or wear perfumèd sweets?
To trick my face, or glory in my fate? 160
T’ abandon natural propensitudes?
My fancy’s humour?—for a stiff jointed,
Tatter’d, nasty, taber-fac’d —— Puh, la, la, ly ro!
Qua. Now, by thy lady’s cheek, I honour thee,
My rich free blood. O my dear libertine!
I could suck the juice, the sirrup of thy lip,
For thy most generous thought!—my Elysium!
Lam. O, sir, you are so square, you scorn reproof.
Qua. No, sir; should discreet Mastigophoros,
Or the dear spirit acute Canaidus 170
(That Aretine, that most of me beloved,
Who in the rich esteem I prize his soul,
I term myself); should these once menace me,
Or curb my humours with well-govern’d check,
I should with most industrious regard,
Observe, abstain, and curb my skipping lightness;
But when an arrogant, odd, impudent,
A blushless forehead, only out of sense
Of his own wants, bawls in malignant questing
At others’ means of waving gallantry,— 180
Pight foutra!
Lam. I rail at none, you well-squared signior.
Qua. I cannot tell; ’tis now grown fashion,
What’s out of railing’s out of fashion.
A man can scarce put on a tuck’d-up cap,
A button’d frizado suit, scarce eat good meat,
Anchovies, caviare, but he’s satired
And term’d fantastical by the muddy spawn
Of slimy newts, when, troth, fantasticness—
That which the natural sophisters term 190
Phantasia incomplexa—is a function
Even of the bright immortal part of man.
It is the common pass, the sacred door,
Unto the privy chamber of the soul;
That barr’d, nought passeth past the baser court
Of outward sense; by it th’ inamorate
Most lively thinks he sees the absent beauties
Of his loved mistress;
By it we shape a new creation
Of things as yet unborn; by it we feed 200
Our ravenous memory, our intention feast:
’Slid he that’s not fantastical’s a beast.
Lam. Most fantastical protection of fantasticness.