SCAENA OCTAVA.
LINGUA, MENDACIO.
LIN. Why, this is good. By Common Sense's means,
Lingua, thou hast fram'd a perfect comedy.
They are all good friends, whom thou mad'st enemies;
And I am half a Sense: a sweet piece of service,
I promise you, a fair step to preferment!
Was this the care and labour thou hast taken
To bring thy foes together to a banquet,
To lose thy crown, and be deluded thus!
Well, now I see my cause is desperate,
The judgment's pass'd, sentence irrevocable,
Therefore I'll be content and clap my hands,
And give a plaudite to their proceedings.
What, shall I leave my hate begun unperfect?
So foully vanquish'd by the spiteful Senses!
Shall I, the embassadress of gods and men,
That pull'd proud Phoebe from her brightsome sphere,
And dark'd Apollo's countenance with a word,
Raising at pleasure storms, and winds, and earthquakes,
Be overcrow'd, and breathe without revenge?
Yet they forsooth, base slaves, must be preferred,
And deck themselves with my right ornaments.
Doth the all-knowing Phoebus see this shame
Without redress? will not the heavens help me?
Then shall hell do it; my enchanting tongue
Can mount the skies, and in a moment fall
From the pole arctic to dark Acheron.
I'll make them know mine anger is not spent;
Lingua hath power to hurt, and will to do it.
Mendacio, come hither quickly, sirrah.
MEN. Madam.
LIN. Hark, hither in thine ear.
MEN. Why do you whisht[298] thus? here's none to hear you.
LIN. I dare not trust these secrets to the earth,
E'er since she brought forth reeds, whose babbling noise
Told all the world of Midas' ass's ears.
[She whispers him in the ear.] Dost understand me?
MEN. Ay, ay, ay—never fear that—there's a jest indeed—
Pish, pish—madam—do you think me so foolish?—Tut, tut, doubt not.
LIN. Tell her, if she do not—
MEN. Why do you make any question of it?—what a stir is here—I warrant you—presently! [Exit MENDACIO.