SCENE V.
Rhymewell, Bagshot, Vicar Catchmey, Sir Christopher.
Rhyme. Come, my most noble order of the club,
'Cause none will else, let's make much of ourselves:
His letter may procure a dinner yet.
Bag. Cheer up, Sir Kit, thou look'st too spiritually:
I see too much of the tithepig in thee.
Chris. I'm not so happy: Kit's as hungry now
As a besieged city, and as dry
As a Dutch commentator. This vile world
Ne'er thinks of qualities: good truth, I think
'T hath much to answer for. Thy poetry,
Rhymewell, and thy voice, Vicar Catchmey, and
Thy law too, Bagshot, is contemn'd: 'tis pity
Professions should be slighted thus. The day
Will come perhaps, when that the commonwealth
May need such men as we. There was a time
When cobblers were made churchmen; and those black'd
Smutch'd creatures thrust into white surplices,
Look'd like so many magpies, and did speak
Just as they [did], by rote. But now the land
Surfeits forsooth: poor labourers in divinity
Can't earn their groat a day, unless it be
Reading of the Christian burial for the dead;
When they, ev'n for that reason, truly thank
God for thus taking this their brother to him.
Catch. Something profane, Sir Christopher!
Chris. When I
Level my larger thoughts unto the basis
Of thy deep shallowness, am I profane?
Henceforth I'll speak, or rather not speak, for
I will speak darkly.
Catch. There's one comfort then:
You will be brief!
Chris. My briefness is prolix.
Thy mind is bodily, thy soul corporeal,
And all thy subtle faculties are not subtle:
Thy subtlety is dulness. I am strong;
I will not be conceiv'd by such mechanics.