Crac. No, no, you shall pardon me for that, Tim[82]; no, no; no boyes play.
Suc. So, so; now set him in the chaires. Hart of valour! he looks like a Mapp oth world. Death, what are these?[83]
Enter Musike.
Grimes. The Town Waites whome I appointed to come and visitt us.
Suc. 'Twas well donn: have you ere a good song?
Tim. Yes, they have many.
Suc. But are they bawdy? come, sir, I see by your simpring it is you that sings, but do not squeake like a French Organ-pipe nor make faces as if you were to sing a Dirge. Your fellowes may goe behind the arras: I love to see Musitions in their postures imitate those ayrey soules that grace our Cittie Theaters, though in their noats they come as short of them as Pan did of Apollo. [Musike.
Grimes. Well, sir, this is indifferent Musicke, trust my judgment. Sing, boy. [A song.
Crac. Now on my life this boy does sing as like the boy[84] at the Whitefryers as ever I heard: how say you Captain?
Suc. I, and the Musicks like theires: come, Sirra, whoes your Poett?