Tipto, Host, Fly, L.Beaufort, L.Latimer.
Come, Quarter-master Fly. Hos. Here's one already
Hath got his Titles. Tip. Doctor! Fly. Noble Colonel!
No Doctor, yet, a poor preofesson of Ceremony,
Here i' the Inn, retainer to the Host,
I discipline the House. Tip. Thour read'st a Lecture
Unto the Family here: when is the Day?
Fly. This is the day. Tip. I'll hear thee, and I'll ha' thee a Doctor,
Thou shalt be one, thou hast a Doctors look!
A face, disputative of Salamanca.
Hos. Who's this? Lat. The glorious Colonel Tipto, Host.
Bea. One talks upon his Tiptoes, if you'll hear him.
Tip. Thous hast good Learning in thee, macte Fly.
Fly. And I say macte to my Colonel.
Host. Well macted of 'em both Bea. They are match'd i'faith.
Tip. But Fly, why macte? Fly. Quasi magis aucte,
My honourable Colonel. Tip. What a Critique?
Host. There's another accession, Critique Fly.
Lat. I fear a taint here i' the Mathematicks.
They say, Lines parallel do never meet;
He has met his parallel in Wit and School-craft.
Bea. They side, not meet man, mend your Metaphor,
And save the credit of your Mathematicks.
Tip. But Fly, how cam'st thou to be here, commited
Unto his Inn? Upon suspicion o' drink Sir.
I was taken late one night here with the Tapster,
And the Under-Officers, and so deposited.
Tip. I will redeem thee, Fly, and place thee better,
With a fair Lady. Fly. A Lady, sweet Sir Glorious!
Tip. A Sov'reign Lady. Thou shalt be the Bird
To Sovereign Pru, Queen of our Sports, her Fly,
The Fly in houshold and in ordinary;
Bird of her Ear, and she shall wear thee there!
A Fly of Gold, enamell'd, and a School-Fly.
Host. The School then, are my Stables, or the Cellar,
Where he doth study deeply, at his Hours,
Cases of Cups, I do not know how spic'd
With Conscience, for the Tapster and the Hostler; as
Whose Horses may be cousen'd? or what Jugs
Fill'd up with Froth? that is his way of Learning.
Tip. What antiquated Feather's that that talks?
Fly. The worshipful Host, my Patron, Mr. Good-stock,
A merry Greek, an cants in Latin comly,
Spins like the Parish Top. Tip. I'll set him up then.
Art thou the Dominus? Host. Fac-totum here, Sir.
Tip. The Lord o' the light Heart, Sir, Cap a pie;
Whereof the Feather is the Emblem, Colonel,
Put up with the Ace of Hearts! Tip. But why in Cuerpo?
I hate to see an Host, and old, in Cuerpo.
Host. Cuerpo? What's that. Tip. Light skipping House and Doublet.
The Horse-boys Garb! poor blank, and half blank
They relish not the gravity of an Host,
Who should be the King at Arms, and Ceremonies Cuerpo,
In his own House! know all, to the Golds weights.
Bea. Why that his Fly doth for him here, your Bird.
Tip. But I would do it myself were I my Host,
I would not speak unto a Cook of quality,
Your Lordships Footman, or my Ladies Trundle,
In Cuerpo! If a Dog but stay'd below,
That were a Dog of Fashion, and well nos'd,
And could present himself; I would put on
The Savoy Chain about my Neck, the Ruff
And Cuffs of Flanders, then the Naples Hat,
With the Rome Hatband, and the Florentin Agate,
The Milan Sword, the Cloak of Genoa set
With Brabant Buttons; all my given Pieces
Except my gloves, the Natives of Madrid,
To entertain him in; and complement
With a tame Coney, as with a Prince that sent it.
Host. The same deeds, though, become not every man;
That fits a Colonel, will not fit an Host.
Tip. Your Spanish Host is never seen in Cuerpo,
Without his Paramento's Cloak and Sword. Fly. Sir he has the father
Of Swords, withing a long Sword; Blade cornish stil'd
Of Sir Rud Hughdebras.
Tip. And with a long Sword, bully Bird? thy sence?
Fly. To note him a tall Man, and a Master of Fence.
Tip. But doth he teach the Spanish way of Don Lewis?
Fly. No, the Greek Master he.
Tip. What call you him? Fly. Euclide.
Tip. Fart upon Euclide,Gi'me the Moderns. Fly. Sir, he minds no Moderns,
Go by, Hieronimo! Tip. What was he? Fly. The Italian,
That plaid with Abbot Antony i' the Fryars,
And Blinkin-sops the bold. Tip. I marry, those,
Had fencing Names, what's become o' them?
Host. They had their times, and we can say, they were.
So had Coranza his: so had Don Lewis.
Fly. Don Lewis of Madrid, is the sole Master
Now of the World. Host. But this o' the other World
Euclide demonstrates! he! Hee's for all!
The only Fencer of Name, now in Elysium.
Fly. He do's it all by Lines and Angles, Colonel;
By Parallels and Sections, has his Diagrams!
Bea. Wilt thou be flying, Fly? Lat. At all, why not?
The Air's as free for a Fly as for an Eagle.
Bea. A Buzzard! he is in his contemplation!
Fly. Euclide a Fencer, and in the Elysium!
Host. He play'd a Prize last week with Archimedes,
And beat him I assure you. Tip. Do you assure me?
For what? Hos. For four i' the hundred. Gi' me five,
And I assure you again. Tip. Host, Peremptory,
You may be tane, but where? whence had you this?
Hos. Upo' the Road, A Post that came from thence,
Three days ago, here, left it with the Tapster.
Fly. Who is indeed a Thorough-fare of news,
Jack Jug with the broken Belly, a witty fellow!
Hos. Your Bird here heard him. Tip. Did you hear him, Bird?
Hos. Speak i' the faith of a Fly. Fly. Yes, and he told us,
Of one that was the Prince of Oranges Fencer,
Tip. Stevinus? Fly. Sir, the same had challeng'd Euclide
At thirty weapons more than Archimedes
E'er saw, And Engines; most of his own Invention.
Tip. This may have credit, and chimes reason, this!
If any man endanger Euclide, Bird,
Observe, that had the Honour to quit Europe
This forty years, 'tis he. He put down Scaliger.
Fly. And he was a great Master. Bea. Not a Fence, Fly.
Tip. Excuse him, Lord, he went o' the same grounds.
Bea. On the same earth I think, with other Mortals?
Tip. I mean, sweet Lord, the Mathematicks. Basta!
When thou know'st more, thou wilt take less green honour.
He had his Circles, Semicircles, Quadrants --
Fly. He writ a Book o' the quadrature o' the Circle,
Tip. Cyclometria, I read -- Bea. The Title only.
Lat. And Indice. Bea. If it had one of that quaere,
What insolent, half-witted things these are?
Lat. So are all Smatterers, insolent, and impudent.
Bea. They lightly go together. Lat. 'Tis my wonder
Two Animals should hawk at all discourse thus!
Flie every Subject to the Mark, or retrieve --
Bea. And never ha' the luck to be i' the right?
Lat. 'Tis some folks fortune! Bea. Fortune's a Bawd,
And a blind Beggar: 'tis their vanity!
And shews most vilely! Tip. I could take the heart now
To write unto Don Lewis into Spain,
To make a progress to the Elysium Fields
Next Summer -- Bea. And perswade him die for fame,
Of fencing with a shadow! Where's mine Host?
I would he had heard his Bubble break, i' faith.