Andrew.
Sir To.
Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be a-bed after
midnight, is to be up betimes; and
Diluculo surgere, thou know'st,—
Sir And.
Nay, by my troth, I know not: but I
know, to be up late, is to be up late.
Sir To.
A false conclusion: I hate it, as an unfill'd
can; to be up after midnight, and to go to bed then,
is early; so that to go to bed after midnight, is to go
bed betimes. Does not our life consist of the four elements?
Sir And.
'Faith, so they say; but, 3 noteI think, it rather
consists of eating and drinking.
Sir To.
Th'art a scholar, let us therefore eat and
drink. Maria! I say!—a stoop of wine.
Enter Clown.
Sir And.
Here comes the fool, i'faith.
Clo.
How now, my hearts? did you never see the
picture of we three?
Sir To.
Welcome, ass, now let's have a catch.
Sir And.
By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast.
I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg, and
so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou
wast in very gracious fooling last night, when thou
spok'st of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the
Equinoctial of Queubus: 'twas very good, i'faith: I
sent thee six-pence for thy Lemon, hadst it?
-- 143 --
Clo.
I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio's
nose is no whip-stock. My Lady has a white hand,
and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses.
Sir And.
Excellent: why, this is the best fooling,
when all is done. Now, a Song.—
Sir To.
Come on, there's Six-pence for you. Let's
have a Song.
Sir And.
There's a testril of me too; if one Knight
give a—
Clo.
Would you have a Love-song, or a Song of
good life?
Sir To.
A Love-song, a Love-song.
Sir And.
Ay, ay, I care not for good life.
Clown sings.
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear, your true love's coming,
That can sing both high and low.
Trip no further, pretty sweeting;
Journeys end in lovers' meeting,
Every wise man's son doth know.
Sir And.
Excellent good, i'faith!
Sir To.
Good, good.
Clo.
What is love? 'tis not hereafter:
Present mirth hath present laughter:
What's to come, is still unsure;
4 note
In decay there lyes no plenty:
Then come kiss me, sweet, and twenty:
Youth's a stuff will not endure.
Sir And.
A mellifluous voice, as I am a true Knight.
Sir To.
A contagious breath.
Sir And.
Very sweet and contagious, i'faith.
-- 144 --
Sir To.
To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion.
But shall we make the welkin dance, indeed?
Shall we rouze the night-owl in a catch, that will
5 notedraw three souls out of one weaver? shall we do
that?
Sir And.
An you love me, let's do't: I am a dog
at a catch.
Clo.
By'r Lady, Sir, and some dogs will catch well.
Sir And.
Most certain? let our catch be, Thou knave.
Clo.
Hold thy peace, thou knave, Knight. I shall be
constrain'd in't, to call thee knave, Knight.
Sir And.
'Tis not the first time I have constrain'd
one to call me knave. Begin, fool; it begins, Hold
thy peace.
Clo.
I shall never begin, if I hold my peace.
Sir And.
Good, i'faith: come, begin.
[They sing a catch.
-- 145 --
Alexander Pope [1747], The works of Shakespear in eight volumes. The Genuine Text (collated with all the former Editions, and then corrected and emended) is here settled: Being restored from the Blunders of the first Editors, and the Interpolations of the two Last: with A Comment and Notes, Critical and Explanatory. By Mr. Pope and Mr. Warburton (Printed for J. and P. Knapton, [and] S. Birt [etc.], London) [word count] [S11301].
