Every Man out of His Humour Part 35

CAR. Is the loin pork enough?

GEORGE. Ay, sir, it is enough.

[EXIT.

MACI. Pork! heart, what dost thou with such a greasy dish? I think thou dost varnish thy face with the fat on't, it looks so like a glue-pot.

CAR. True, my raw-boned rogue, and if thou wouldst farce thy lean ribs with it too, they would not, like ragged laths, rub out so many doublets as they do; but thou know'st not a good dish, thou. O, it's the only nourishing meat in the world. No marvel though that saucy, stubborn generation, the Jews, were forbidden it; for what would they have done, well pamper'd with fat pork, that durst murmur at their Maker out of garlick and onions? 'Slight! fed with it, the wh.o.r.eson strummel-patch'd, goggle-eyed grumble-dories, would have gigantomachised -- RE-ENTER GEORGE WITH WINE.

Well said, my sweet George, fill, fill.

MIT. This savours too much of profanation.

COR. O -- -- Servetur ad imum, Qualis ab incoepto processerit, et sibi constet.

"The necessity of his vein compels a toleration, for; bar this, and dash him out of humour before his time."

CAR. "'Tis an axiom in natural philosophy, what comes nearest the nature of that it feeds, converts quicker to nourishment, and doth sooner essentiate." Now nothing in flesh and entrails a.s.similates or resembles man more than a hog or swine.

[DRINKS.

MACI. True; and he, to requite their courtesy, oftentimes doffeth his own nature, and puts on theirs; as when he becomes as churlish as a hog, or as drunk as a sow; but to your conclusion.

[DRINKS.

CAR. Marry, I say, nothing resembling man more than a swine, it follows, nothing can be more nourishing; for indeed (but that it abhors from our nice nature) if we fed upon one another, we should shoot up a great deal faster, and thrive much better; I refer me to your usurous cannibals, or such like; but since it is so contrary, pork, pork, is your only feed.

MACI. I take it, your devil be of the same diet; he would never have desired to have been incorporated into swine else. -- O, here comes the melancholy mess; upon 'em, Carlo, charge, charge!

ENTER PUNTARVOLO, FASTIDIOUS BRISK, SOGLIARDO, AND FUNGOSO.

CAR. 'Fore G.o.d, sir Puntarvolo, I am sorry for your heaviness: body o'

me, a shrew'd mischance! why, had you no unicorn's horn, nor bezoar's stone about you, ha?

PUNT. Sir, I would request you be silent.

MACI. Nay, to him again.

CAR. Take comfort, good knight, if your cat have recovered her catarrh, fear nothing; your dog's mischance may be holpen.

FAST. Say how, sweet Carlo; for, so G.o.d mend me, the poor knight's moans draw me into fellowship of his misfortunes. But be not discouraged, good sir Puntarvolo, I am content your adventure shall be performed upon your cat.

MACI. I believe you, musk-cod, I believe you; for rather than thou would'st make present repayment, thou would'st take it upon his own bare return from Calais [ASIDE.

CAR. Nay, 'slife, he'd be content, so he were well rid out of his company, to pay him five for one, at his next meeting him in Paul's. [ASIDE TO MACILENTE.] -- But for your dog, sir Puntarvolo, if he be not out-right dead, there is a friend of mine, a quack-salver, shall put life in him again, that's certain.

FUNG. O, no, that comes too late.

MACI. 'Sprecious! knight, will you suffer this?

PUNT. Drawer, get me a candle and hard wax presently.

[EXIT GEORGE.

SOG. Ay, and bring up supper; for I am so melancholy.

CAR. O, signior, where's your Resolution?

SOG. Resolution! hang him, rascal: O, Carlo, if you love me, do not mention him.

CAR. Why, how so?

SOG. O, the arrantest crocodile that ever Christian was acquainted with.

By my gentry, I shall think the worse of tobacco while I live, for his sake: I did think him to be as tall a man --

MACI. Nay, Buffone, the knight, the knight [ASIDE TO CARLO.

CAR. 'Slud, he looks like an image carved out of box, full of knots; his face is, for all the world, like a Dutch purse, with the mouth downward, his beard the ta.s.sels; and he walks -- let me see -- as melancholy as one o' the master's side in the Counter. -- Do you hear, sir Puntarvolo?

PUNT. Sir, I do entreat you, no more, but enjoin you to silence, as you affect your peace.

CAR. Nay, but dear knight, understand here are none but friends, and such as wish you well, I would have you do this now; flay me your dog presently (but in any case keep the head) and stuff his skin well with straw, as you see these dead monsters at Bartholomew fair.

PUNT. I shall be sudden, I tell you.

CAR. O, if you like not that, sir, get me somewhat a less dog, and clap into the skin; here's a slave about the town here, a Jew, one Yohan: or a fellow that makes perukes will glue it on artificially, it shall never be discern'd; besides, 'twill be so much the warmer for the hound to travel in, you know.

MACI. Sir Puntarvolo, death, can you be so patient!

CAR. Or thus, sir; you may have, as you come through Germany, a familiar for little or nothing, shall turn itself into the shape of your dog, or any thing, what you will, for certain hours -- [PUNTARVOLO STRIKES HIM] -- Ods my life, knight, what do you mean? you'll offer no violence, will you?

hold, hold!

RE-ENTER GEORGE, WITH WAX, AND A LIGHTED CANDLE.

PUNT. 'Sdeath, you slave, you ban-dog, you!

CAR. As you love wit, stay the enraged knight, gentlemen.

PUNT. By my knighthood, he that stirs in his rescue, dies. -- Drawer, begone!

[EXIT GEORGE.

CAR. Murder, murder, murder!

PUNT. Ay, are you howling, you wolf? -- Gentlemen, as you tender your lives, suffer no man to enter till my revenge be perfect. Sirrah, Buffone, lie down; make no exclamations, but down; down, you cur, or I will make thy blood flow on my rapier hilts.

CAR. Sweet knight, hold in thy fury, and 'fore heaven I'll honour thee more than the Turk does Mahomet.

PUNT. Down, I say! [CARLO LIES DOWN.] -- Who's there?

[KNOCKING WITHIN.

CONS. [WITHIN.] Here's the constable, open the doors.

CAR. Good Macilente --

PUNT. Open no door; if the Adalantado of Spain were here he should not enter: one help me with the light, gentlemen; you knock in vain, sir officer.

CAR. 'Et tu, Brute!'