STUDIOSO.
O, how it grieves my vexed soul to see
Each painted ass in chair of dignity!
And yet we grovel on the ground alone,
Running through every trade, yet thrive by none:
More we must act in this life's tragedy.
PHILOMUSUS.
Sad is the plot, sad the catastrophe.
STUDIOSO.
Sighs are the chorus in our tragedy.
PHILOMUSUS.
And rented thoughts continual actors be.[79]
STUDIOSO.
Woe is the subject, Phil.;[80] earth the loath'd stage
Whereon we act this feigned personage;
Most like[81] barbarians the spectators be,
That sit and laugh at our calamity.
PHILOMUSUS.
Bann'd be those hours when, 'mongst the learned throng,
By Granta's muddy bank we whilome sung!
STUDIOSO.
Bann'd be that hill, which learned wits adore,
Where erst we spent our stock and little store!
PHILOMUSUS.
Bann'd be those musty mews, where we have spent
Our youthful days in paled languishment!
STUDIOSO.
Bann'd be those cos'ning arts that wrought our woe,
Making us wand'ring pilgrims to and fro.
PHILOMUSUS.
And pilgrims must we be without relief;
And wheresoe'er we run, there meets us grief.