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النشر الإلكتروني

Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not found.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes fimplicity a grace ;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free :
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all th' adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Enter Truewit. Tru. Why, here's the man that can melt away his time, and never feels it! What between his mistress abroad, high fare at home, soft lodging, fine cloaths, and his fiddle; he thinks the hours have no wings, or the day no post-horse. Well, Sir Gallant, were you ftruck with the plague this minute, or condemn’d to any capital punishment tomorrow, you would begin then to think, and value every particle o' your time, esteem it at the true rate, and give all for't.

Cler. Why, what should a man do?

Tru. Why, nothing; or, that, which when 'tis done, is as idle : Hearken after the next horserace, or hunting-match ; lay wagers ; swear upon Whitefoot's party; speak aloud, that my lords may hear you; visit my ladies at night, and be able to

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give 'em the character of every bowler or better o' the green. These be the things, wherein your fashionable men exercise themselves, and I for conipany.

Cler. Nay, if I have thy authority, I'll not leave yet. Come, the other are considerations, when we come to have grey heads, and weak hams; we'll think on 'em then; then we'll pray and fast.

Tru. Ay, and destine only that time of age to goodness, which our want of ability will not let us employ in evil ?

Cler. Why, then 'tis time enough.

Tru. Yes, as if a man should sleep all the term, and think to effect his business the last day. Oh, Clerimont, see but our common disease! with what justice can we complain, that great men will not look upon us, nor be at leisure to give our affairs such dispatch as we expect, when we will never do it to ourselves; not hear, nor regard ourselves.

Cler. Foh, thou hast read Plutarch's Morais, now, or some such tedious fellow; and it shews so vilely with thee ! 'Twill spoil thy wit utterly. Talk me of pins, and feathers, and ladies, and rushes, and such things: And leave this alone, 'till thou mak'st sermons.

Tru, Well, Sir, if it will not take, I have learned

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to lose as little of my kindness, as I can. I'll do good to no man against his will, certainly. When were you at the college ?

Cler. What college ?

Tru. A new foundation, Sir, here i' the town, of ladies, that call themselves the collegiates; and give entertainment to all the wits, and braveries o'the time, as they call 'em : Cry down, or up, what they like or dislike in a brain or a fashion, with most masculine, or rather hermaphroditical authority; and every day gain to their college fome new probationer.

Cler. Who is the president?

Tru. The grave and youthful matron, the lady Haughty.

Cler. A plague of her autumnal face, her piec'd beauty: There's no man can be admitted till she be ready, now-a-days, till she has painted, and perfum’d.

Tru. And a wise lady will keep a guard always. I once followed a rude fellow into a chamber where the poor madam, for haste, and troubled, snatch'd at her peruke, to cover her baldness, and put it on the wrong way.

Cler. Oh prodigy!
Tru. And the unconscionable knave held her in



compliment an hour with that revers'd face, when I still look'd when she should talk from the other side.

Cler. Why, thou shouldst have reliev'd her.

Tru. No faith, I let her alone; as we'll let this argument, if you please, and pass to another. When faw you Sir Dauphine Eugene ?

Cler. Not these three days. Shall we go to him this morning ? He is very melancholick, I hear.

Tru. Sick o' the uncle, is he? I met that stiff piece of forınality, his uncle, yesterday, with a huge turbant of night-caps on his head, buckled over his ears.

Cler. Oh, that's his custom when he walks abroad. He can endure no noise, man.

Tru. So I have heard. But is the disease fo ri. diculous in him as it is made? They say he has been upon divers treaties with the fifh-wives, and orange-women; and articles propounded between them: Marry, the chimney-sweepers will not be drawn in.

Cler. No, nor the broom-men: They stand out stifly. He cannot endure a costard-monger, he -fwoons if he hear one.

Tru. Methinks a smith should be ominous.
Cler. Or any hammer-man. A brazier is not


fuffered to dwell in the parish, nòr an armourer. He would have hang'd a pewterer's 'prentice once, for being o’that trade.

Tru. A trumpet would fright him terribly, or the hau'boys.

Cler. Out of his senses. The waights of the city have a pension of him not to come near that ward. This youth practis'd on him one night like the bellman, and never left till he had brought him down to the door, with a long sword: And there left him flourishing with the air. And, another time, a fencer, going to his prize, had his drum most tragically run through, for taking that street in his way at my request.

Tru. A good wag! How does he for the bells?

Cler. Why, Sir, he hath chosen a street to live in, so narrow at both ends, that it will receive no coaches, nor carts, nor any of those common noises: And as for the bells, the frequency of ringing has made him devise a room, with double walls, and treble cielings; the windows close shut and calk’d: And there he lives by candlelight. He turn'd away a man last week, for having a pair of new shoes that creak’d. And his fellow waits on him now in tennis-court socks, or slippers soal'd with wool: ,, And they talk to each other in a trunk. See, who

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comes here !


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