POPPEY. I tell you, Master Sylla, my neighbour will have the law: he had the right, he will have the wrong; for therein dwells the law.
CONSUL. What desire these men of Rome?
CURTALL. Neighbour, sharpen the edge-tool of your wits upon the whetstone of indiscretion, that your words may shine like the razors of Palermo[165]: [to POPPEY] you have learning with ignorance, therefore speak my tale.
POPPEY. Then, worshipful Master Sylla, be it known unto you,
That my neighbour's daughter Dority
Was a maid of restority;
Fair, fresh, and fine
As a merry cup of wine;
Her eyes like two potch'd eggs,
Great and goodly her legs;
But mark my doleful ditty,
Alas! for woe and pity!
A soldier of your's
Upon a bed of flowers
Gave her such a fall,
As she lost maidenhead and all.
And thus in very good time
I end my rudeful rhyme.
SYLLA. And what of this, my friend? why seek you me,
Who have resign'd my titles and my state,
To live a private life, as you do now?
Go move the Consul Flaccus in this cause,
Who now hath power to execute the laws.
CURTALL. And are you no more master dixcator, nor generality of the soldiers?
SYLLA. My powers do cease, my titles are resign'd.
CURTALL. Have you signed your titles? O base mind, that being in the
Paul's steeple of honour, hast cast thyself into the sink of simplicity.
Fie, beast!
Were I a king, I would day by day
Suck up white bread and milk,
And go a-jetting in a jacket of silk;
My meat should be the curds,
My drink should be the whey,
And I would have a mincing lass to love me every day.
POPPEY. Nay, goodman Curtall, your discretions are very simple; let me cramp him with a reason. Sirrah, whether is better good ale or small-beer? Alas! see his simplicity that cannot answer me: why, I say ale.
CURTALL. And so say I, neighbour.