SCAENA SEPTIMA.
OLFACTUS, in a garland of bays intermingled with white and red roses upon a false hair, his sleeves wrought with flowers under a damask mantle, over a pair of silk bases; a pair of buskins drawn with ribbon, a flower in his hand.
TACTUS, OLFACTUS.
TAC. Ay me! Olfactus comes; I call'd too soon,
He'll have half part, I fear; what shall I do!
Where shall I run? how shall I shift him off?
[TACTUS wraps up the robe and crown, and sits upon them.
OLF. This is the time, and this the place appointed,
Where Visus promis'd to confer with me.
I think he's there—no, no, 'tis Tactus sure.
How now? what makes you sit so nicely?
TAC. 'Tis past imagination, 'tis so indeed.
OLF. How fast his hands[184] are fixed, and how melancholy he looks!
Tactus! Tactus!
TAC. For this is true, man's life is wondrous brittle.
OLF. He's mad, I think, he talks so idly. So ho, Tactus!
TAC. And many have been metamorphosed
To stranger matters and more uncouth forms.