[Tediousness.] Oh, the body of me!
What caitiffs be those
That will not once flee
From Tediousness' nose;
But thus disease me
Out of my nest,
When I should ease me
This body to rest!
That Wit, that villain,
That wretch—a shame take him!
It is he plain
That thus bold doth make him,
Without my licence
To stalk by my door
To that drab, Science,
To wed that whore!
But I defy her;
And, for that drab's sake,
Or Wit come nigh her,
The knave's head shall ache;
These bones, this mall,
Shall beat him to dust
Or that drab shall
Once quench that knave's lust!
But, ha! methinks
I am not half lusty;
These joints, these links,
Be rough and half rusty;
I must go shake them,
Supple to make them!
Stand back, ye wretches!
Beware the fetches
Of Tediousness.
These caitiffs to bless,
Make room, I say;
Round every way—
This way, that way!
What cares what way?
Before me, behind me,
Round about wind me!
Now I begin
To sweat in my skin;
Now am I nemble
To make them tremble.
Pash head! pash brain!
The knaves are slain,
All that I hit!
Where art thou, Wit!
Thou art but dead!
Off goeth thy head
At the first blow!
Ho, ho! ho ho! [Wit speaketh at the door.
[Wit.] Study!
Study. Here, sir!
Wit. How, doth thy head ache?
Study. Yea, God wot, sir! much pain I do take!
Wit. Diligence!
Dil. Here, sir, here!
Wit. How dost thou?
Doth thy stomach serve thee to fight now?
Dil. Yea, sir, with yonder wretch—a vengeance on him
That threateneth you thus. Set even upon him!
Study. Upon him, Diligence? Better nay!