1. An't please your Worship, Mr. Capt., our Boyes can singe songs to these.
Cap. No, no, saveing your presence, your Boyes have nothing, sarreverence,[263] but Love songs, and I hate those monstruously, to make thinges appeare better then they are, and that is but deceptio Visus, which after some embraceings the parties see presently what it is. The Musique Playes.
(Hee sings and reeks and fillips all the time with his finger, then sayees:)
Cap. I, I, this thumping tune I like a life; a Song, a Song to it!
_One Singes.
This Song.
The Juice of Spanish squeez'd Grapes is It
That makes a dull Braine so full of witt;
The Lemonades cleere sparkling wine
The grosser witts too, doth much refine.
Then to bee foxd[264] it is no crime,
Since thickest and dull Braines It makes sublime.
The Stillyards Reanish wine and Divells white,
Who doth not in them sometimes take delight?
If with Mimique Gestures you'le keep you from sadnes,
Then drinke lusty Clarett twill put you in Madnes;
And then to settle you no hopes in Beer
But wholesome Potts of Scotch ale though its deere.
Cap. But looke you, Child, you say the Divells white in your Song. You have beene ill catechiz'd, Boy, for a White Divell is but a poeticall fiction[265]; for the Divell, God bless us, Child, is blacke.
Boy. No, Captaine, I say white wine at the Divell.
Cap. That's true; thats a good Boy, indeed. Underwit, lend mee a Peice to give these harmonious men there. And now begon, my Masters, without noise, for I will have no more fiddle-faddle for my money, no tunes of supererrogation after the Musicall Bill is paid.
[Exeunt[266] omnes.