Sea. We heard it too
In Paul's now, as we came.
Plot. There, friend, there is
A fare for you. I'm glad you 'scap'd; I had
Not known the news so soon else. [Gives him money.
Cyph. Sir, excuse me.
Plot. Sir, it is conscience; I do believe you might
Sue me in Chancery.
Cyph. Sir, you show the virtues of an heir.
Ware. Are you rich Warehouse's heir, sir?
Plot. Yes, sir, his transitory pelf,
And some twelve hundred pound a year in earth,
Is cast on me. Captain, the hour is come,
You shall no more drink ale, of which one draught
Makes cowards, and spoils valour; nor take off
Your moderate quart-glass. I intend to have
A musket for you, or glass-cannon, with
A most capacious barrel, which we'll charge
And discharge with the rich valiant grape
Of my uncle's cellar. Every charge shall fire
The glass, and burn itself i' th' filling, and look
Like a piece going off.
Quart. I shall be glad
To give thanks for you, sir, in pottle-draughts,
And shall love Scotch coal for this wreck the better,
As long as I know fuel.
Plot. Then my poet
No longer shall write catches or thin sonnets,
Nor preach in verse, as if he were suborn'd
By him that wrote the Whip,[233] to pen lean acts,
And so to overthrow the stage for want
Of salt or wit. Nor shall he need torment
Or persecute his Muse; but I will be
His god of wine t' inspire him. He shall no more
Converse with the five-yard butler who, like thunder,
Can turn beer with his voice, and roar it sour;
But shall come forth a Sophocles, and write
Things for the buskin. Instead of Pegasus,
To strike a spring with's hoof, we'll have a steel
Which shall but touch a butt, and straight shall flow
A purer, higher, wealthier Helicon.
Sale. Frank, thou shalt be my Phœbus. My next poem
Shall be thy uncle's tragedy, or the life
And death of two rich merchants.