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Sub. Yes faith, yes faith.
Face. Why, who
Sub. I'll tell you,
Face. Speak lower, rogue.
Face. Will you be so loud ?
Sub. Within man's memory,
Face. Why, I pray you, have I
Sub. I do not hear well.
Face. Not of this, I think it : But I shall put you in mind, sir; at Pye-Corner, Taking your meal of steam in, from cooks' stalls; Where, like the father of hunger, you did walk Piteously costive, with your pinch’d-horn nose, And your complexion of the Roman wash, Stuck full of black and melancholic worms, Like powder corn shot at th’Artillery-yard. "Sub. I wish you could advance your voice a little. Face. When you went pinn'd up in the several rags
You had rak’d and pick'd from dunghills before day;
Sub. So, sir!
Face. When all your alchymy, and your algebra, Your minerals, vegetals, and animals, Your conjuring, coz’ning, and your doz'n of trades, Could not relieve your corpse with so much linen Would make you tinder but to see a fire; I gave you countnance, credit for your coals, Your stills, your glasses, your materials; Built you a furnace, drew you customers, Advanc'd all your black arts, lent you, beside, A house to practice in
Sub. Your master's house?
Face. Where you have studied the more thriving skill Of bawd’ry since.
61 Sub. Yes, in your master's house. You and the rats here kept possession. Make it not strange.
“ I know you were one could keep “ The butt'ry hatch still lock’d, and save the chippings, “ Sell the dole beer to aqua-vitæ men, “ The which, together with your Christmas vails “ At post and pair, your letting out of counters, “ Made you a pretty stock, some twenty marks, “ And gave you credit to converse with cobwebs “ Here, since your mistress’death hath broke up house.
“ Face. You might talk softlier, rascal.
“ Sub. No, you Scarabe ; “ I'll thunder you in pieces : I will teach you “ How to beware to tempt a fury again, “ That carries tempest in his hand and voice.
“ Face. The place has made you valiant.'
“ Sub. No, your clothes. “ Thou vermin, have I ta'en thee out of dung, “ So poor, so wretched, when no living thing 80 “ Would keep thee company, but a spider, or worse! “ Rais'd thee from brooms, and dust, and wat’ring
pots! “ Sublim'd thee, and exalted thee, and fix'd thee “ l’the third region callid our State of Grace! “ Wrought thee to spirit, to quintessence, with pains “ Would twice have won me the philosopher's work! “ Made thee a second in mine own great art! " And have I this for thanks? Do
“ Sub. Slave, thou hadst had no name
“ Sub. Never been known, past equi clibanum, “ The heat of horse-dung, under ground, in cellars, " Or an ale-house darker than deaf John's; been lost “ To all mankind, but laundresses and tapsters, 66 Had not I been.
“ Dol. Do you know who hears you, sovereign? “ Face. Sirrah
“ Dol. Nay, general, I thought you were civil." Face. I shall turn desperate, if you grow thus loud. Sub. And hang thyself, I care not,
Face. Hang thee, collier, And all thy pots and pans, in picture, “ I will, " Since thou hast mov'd me
“ Dol. Oh, this'll o'erthrow all. “ Face. Write thee up bawd in Paul's, have all thy
tricks « Of coz’ning with a hollow coal, dust, scrapings, “ Searching for things lost with a sieve and sheers, “ Erecting figures in your rows of houses, “ And taking in of shadows with a glass, “ Told in red letters; and a face cut for thee, “ Worse than Gamaliel Ratsey's.
“ Dol. Are you sound? “ Ha’you your senses, masters ?
« Face. I will have " A book, but barely reckoning thy impostures, “ Shall prove a true philosopher's stone to printers."
Sub. Away, you tuencher-rascal,
Face. Out, you dog-leach,
Dol. Will you be
Dol. We are ruin'di lost! Ha’you no more regard To your reputations? Where's your judgment? 'Slight, Have yet some care of me, o’your republick
Face. Away, this brach. I'll bring the rogue within The statute of sorcery, “ tricesimo tertio “ Of Harry the Eighth; ay, and, perhaps, thy neck " Within a nuose for laund'ring gold, and barbing it." Dol. You'll bring your head within a cockscomb,
will you? [Shecatches out Face's sword, and breaks Subtle's,
'sglass. And you, sir, with your menstrue, gather it up. 'Sdeath!
abominable pair of stinkards, 140