Dares. Good! as how?

Epi. Why, in marrying Dipsas he shall have every day twelve dishes of meat to his dinner, though there be none but Dipsas with him: four of flesh, four of fish, four of fruit.

Sam. As how, Epi?

Epi. For flesh, these: woodcock, goose, bittern, and rail.

Dares. Indeed, he shall not miss, if Dipsas be there.

Epi. For fish, these: crab, carp, lumpe, and powting.

Sam. Excellent! for my word she is both crabish, lumpish, and carping.

Epi. For fruit, these: fritters, medlars, artichokes, and lady longings. Thus you see he shall fare like a king, though he be but a beggar.

Dares. Well, Epi, dine thou with him, for I had rather fast than see her face. But see, thy master is asleep: let us have a song to wake this amorous knight.

All three. At sight of her each fury skips,

And flings into her lap their whips.

These are allusions to the unamiable qualities of Dipsas; the meaning of some of the dishes are explained, others need not explanation, and some I do not understand.

Dares. Hallo, hallo, in his ear.

Sam. The witch sure thrust her fingers there.
Epi. Cramp him, or wring the fool by th' nose;
Dares. Or clap some burning flax to his toes.
Sam. What music's best to wake him?
Epi. Bow wow! let bandogs shake him.
Dares. Let adders hiss in 's ear,

Sam. Else earwigs wriggle there.

Epi. No, let him batten* when his tongue
Once goes, a cat is not worse strung.

All three. But if he ope nor mouth nor eyes,
He may in time sleep himself wise.

Top. Sleep is a binding of the senses, love a loosing.

Epi. Let us hear him awhile.

Top. There appeared in my sleep a goodly owl, who, sitting upon my shoulder, cried twit, twit; and before mine eyes presented herself the express image of Dipsas; I marvelled what the owl said, till at last I perceived twit, twit, was to it, to it, only by contraction; admonished by this vision to make account of my sweet Venus.

Sam. Sir Tophas, you have overslept yourself. Top. No, youth, I have but slept over my love.

Dares. Love! why it is impossible that into so noble and unconquered a courage, love should creep, having first a head as hard to pierce as steel, then to pass to a heart armed with a shirt

of mail.

碗

"Batten," to grow fat. So used in Hamlet:

"Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,

And batten on this moor?"

And by Dryden:

"The lazy glutton safe at home will keep,

Indulge his sloth, and batten on his sleep."

Epi. Aye, but my master yawning one day in the sun, love crept into his mouth before he could close it, and there kept such a tumbling in his body that he was glad to untruss the points* of his heart, and entertain love as a stranger.

Top. If there remain any pity in you, plead for me to Dipsas.

Dares. Plead! nay, we will press her to it. Let us go with him to Dipsas, and there shall we have good sport. But, Sir Tophas, when shall we go? for I find my tongue voluble, and my heart venturous, and all myself like myself.

Sam. Come, Dares, let us not lose him till we find our masters, for as long as he liveth, we shall lack neither mirth nor meat.

Epi. We will travice. Will you go, sir?
Top. I præ, sequar.

SCENE IV.

EUMENIDES and GERON.

Eum. Father, your sad music being tuned on the same key that my hard fortune is, hath so melted my mind that I wish to hang at your mouth's end, till life end.

This is a figure of speech taken from the dress of the times: for previously to the introduction of buttons (though they continued to be made long afterwards) points were used to keep together the different parts of the dress. They were "strands of cotton yarn of various colours twisted together, and tagged at both ends with bits of tin plate." Those worn by the higher classes were more ornamented, and of silk: but by an Act of Henry VIII. no man under the rank of gentleman was to have his points ornamented with aiglets of gold or silver, under penalty of ten shillings, and forfeiture of the aiglets.

Ger. These tunes, gentleman, have I been accustomed with these fifty winters, having no other house to shrowd myself, but the broad heavens, and so familiar with me hath use made misery, that I esteem sorrow my chiefest solace, and welcomest is that guest to me that can rehearse the saddest tale, or the bloodiest tragedy. Eum. A strange humour, might I inquire the cause?

Ger. You must pardon me if I deny to tell it, for knowing that the revealing of griefs is as it were a renewing of sorrow; I have vowed therefore to conceal them, that I might not only feel the depth of everlasting discontentment, but despair of remedy. But whence are you? what fortune hath thrust you to this distress?

Eum. I am going to Thessaly, to seek remedy for Endymion, my dearest friend, who hath been cast into a dead sleep almost these twenty years, waxing old and ready for the grave, being almost but newly come forth of the cradle.

Ger. You need not for recure travel far; for whoso can clearly see the bottom of this fountain, shall have remedy for any thing.

Eum. That me thinketh is impossible. Why, what virtue can there be in water?

Ger. Yes, whosoever can shed the tears of a faithful lover, shall obtain any thing he would: read these words engraven about the brim.

Eum. Have you known this by experience, or is it placed here of purpose to delude men?

Ger. I only would have experience of it, and then should there be an end of my misery; and then would I tell the strangest discourse that ever yet was heard.

Eum. Ah, Eumenides!

Ger. What lack you, gentleman, are you not well?

Eum. Yes, father, but a qualm that often cometh over my heart, doth now take hold of me. But did never any lovers come hither?

Ger. Lusters, but not lovers; for often have I seen them weep, but never could I hear they saw the bottom.

Eum. Come there women also?

Ger. Some.

Eum. What did they see?

Ger. They all wept, that the fountain overflowed with tears; but so thick became the water with their tears, that I could scarce discern the brim, much less behold the bottom.

Eum. Be faithful lovers so scant?

Ger. It seemeth so, for yet heard I never of any.

Eum. Ah, Eumenides, how art thou perplexed! call to mind the beauty of thy sweet mistress, and the depth of thy never dying affections: how oft hast thou honoured her, not only without spot, but suspicion of falsehood? And how hardly hath she rewarded thee without cause or colour of despite; how secret hast thou been these seven years, that hast not, nor once darest not to name her, for discontenting her; how faithful, that hast offered to die for her to please her. Unhappy Eumenides!

Ger. Why, gentleman, did you once love?
Eum. Once? Aye, father, and ever shall.
Ger. Was she unkind, and you faithful?