Pros.
Now does the charm'd impostume of my Plot
Swell to a head, and begin to suppurate,
If I can make Mantua's Infant Duke,
Switchel my young giglet Dorinda.
Sincere Quakero to my power bends,
And shall with my discreet Miranda yoak,
Or be tormented ever here,
In my enchanted Castle of Bridewellow.
Great pity 'tis—for he's a pretty fellow.
Ariel!

Ari.
What says my mighty and most potent Master.

Pros.
How do these right puissant Ragamuffins bear their durance?

Ari.
The Duke with haughty meen, for lack of food,
Sits cracking Fleas, and sucking of their blood.
With him is good Gonzale.

Pros.
Is he so, Adsbud. [Throwes away his Bread and Butter, in passion.

Ari.
From eyes of Glass the gummy tears that fall
Down Iv'ry beard like Christal vermine crawl.
The rest are picking strawes, and so that's all.

Pros.
Where is Quakero, that young Princely Sprout?

Ari.
Like Lanthorn-jack I led him all about,
And now he's blowing of his nailes without.

Pros.
Alass poor Trout.

Ari.

I have so gall'd ^note 'em, 'twould make your Graces hair stand on end to see how they look; though your heart more stony was then Coblers wax i'th' dog days, 'twould make it in your mouth dissolve like Culvers dung.

Pros.

Do'st thou think so Spirit?

Ari.

It makes mine open and shut, open and shut, like a fat Hostesses greazy Pouch, so it does: and then the poor old Gentleman ^note and her daughters have almost torne one another to peeces—I pity them.

Pros.

And I will—hast thou that art so young a Spirit, so little too—had a touch a feeling of their Case, and shall not I have a relish? —Well, Ariel go let a Table be brought to them furnish'd with most sumptuous Cates, but when they try to eat, let two great Babboons be let down with ropes to snatch it away.

Ari.

O Sir Punchanello did that at the Play-house.

Pros.

Did he so—then bend thy ayry ear.

Ari.

More toyle—I pry'thee now let me mind thee of thy promise then—where is my Two-penny Custard?

Pros.

Ho now moody, doe'st thou murmure?

Ari.

No my Lord!

Pros.

Thou ly'st, Malignant thing, thou dost.

Ari.

I pri'the my Lord, ben't so touchy.

Pros.

Hast thou forgot the hairy Woman I freed thee from, who sent thee ev'ry morning down her Gormandizing throat with a Candle and Lanthorn, to tread the Ooze of the salt deep?—At other times she made thee pass up against the strong Northern blasts, when the capacious Bay was bak'd with brandy 'till thou hadst clear'd thy passage to her nose, on whose sulph'rous top thou sat'st Singing like a little Chimny Sweeper, hast thou forgot her?

Ari.

No my dread Lord.

Pros.

If thou more murmur'st, in some small dimple of her Cheek I'le peg thee, where Twelve Sommers more thou shalt lye stewing like a Maggot in a Holland Cheese.

Ari.

O pardon great Sir this once, and I will be a good Boy, and never do so more.

Pros.

Then do as I commanded, but make hast least the Conjurers of to'ther House steal the Invention—thou know'st they snatch

at all Ingenious tricks.

Ari.

I fly most potent Sir.

Pros.

Now for the infant Duke of Mantua. Hypolito my Child come forth.

Hyp.

Anan, anan, forsooth—you Sir, don't you stir the Nickers, I'le play out my game presently.

Pros.

Come gentle youth, exalt thy ducal chin, for thou shalt have a Wife my boy.

Hyp.

A Wife Sir! what's that, I never saw it?

Pros.

No my boy, but they are now so common, young men can hardly walk the streets for them.

Hyp.

Don't go away, you Sir, I do but stay for a Wife, and then I'le play out my game.—O good Sir, let me have it quickly.

Pros.

And so thou shalt, for my daughters sake; if he should know Wives were growing out of fashion, I fear he would not marry, for the stripling has a gentile fancy, I see by the neatness of his cloathes.

Hyp.

Will it play at Bullet with me?

Pros.

Ay and Cat, and Trap-ball too.

Hyp.

What is it like Sir? what is it like?

Pros.

'Tis so inconstant I scarce know what to liken it to, 'tis still unsatisfi'd, restless and wrigling like an Eel.

Hyp.

O pray let me have it then; I love Eels mightily.

Pros.

But like an Eel 'twill slip from thee.

Hyp.

But I'le bite it by the tail then, and shake it 'till it lies still.

Pros.

A shrew'd youth! well thou shalt have it, 'tis beautiful as a Colly-flower, but like that too, when 'tis kep'd long, nothing is more unpleasant.

Hyp.

O Sir! I won't keep it long.

Pros.

A very hopeful Lad!—But it won't part from thee.

Hyp.

Then I'le beat it, and kick it, and run away from't.

Pros.

Modishly said y'gad, still hopeful—but she'l save thee that trouble, and leave thee as soon any other will keep her; for she's wild and skittish as an unbackt Colt.

Hyp.

Is it like a Colt? O Lemine! then I'le ride upon't.

Pros.

A lass poor youth! thou wilt soon be tir'd, and thrown off.

Hyp.

No Sir, I shall never be weary of Riding; and I'le hold so fast by the Mane and the Tail, that I won't fall off.

Pros.

O fie, you must not use it like a Beast.

Hyp.

What must I do with it then?

Pros.

Why you must eat and drink with it.

Hyp.

What is it a Fork, and an Earthern-Pot then?

Pros.

No, but she may make Forkes, and crack too many Pots.

Hyp.

Then she shall teach me to make Forks.

Pros.

Hold there,—you must enjoy none but her.

Pros.

Enjoy, ah ha! enjoy! what a word is there? enjoy! O rare!—what is enjoy Sir?

Pros.

Why, that is to be happy.

Hyp.

Enjoy to be happy, then I'le enjoy all the Wives in the World;—For I love to be happy Sir: enjoy!

Pros.

I'le tell you more hereafter; go in and read your Hornbook, that Treatise of Abstruse Philosophy I gave you last.

Hyp.

I go forsooth.

Pros.

Now by my best hopes a shrew'd youth, a very shrew'd youth, and a notable head-peace—I'm glad he's grown so prudent. If all that Marry in this Age of liberty were so Politick, we should see better times.

Hyp.

O lo! o lo! o lo! Oh, ho, ho, ho!

Pros.

What's the matter? what grand intrigue of Fate can reach to the disturbance of thy manly Soul?

Hyp.

Manly Soul, quoth a, 'twould disturb any mans Soul: I'me undone Sir, while I was talking with you about a Wife, Tom Bully stole away my stones.

Pros.

Hah thy stones, what stones?

Hyp.

Why my bowling stones. O ho ho, now I can't teach my Wife to play Nickers.

Pros.

I'me glad 'tis no worse; O fie, fie my Lord, you must leave off this boyes Play now, and learn to play with Children; go, go in.

Hyp.

By never, I'le pay that Rogue Tom Bully, when I catch him.

Pros.
Now I must instruct my Daughters.
Long sleeps and pleasures follow ev'ry Novice:
But plots and cares perplex grave men of Office.
Ye Gods!
More blest are men of mean and low condition,

Then Bridewell-keeper is, or sage Magician. [Exit Prospero.

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