Classic Poem

ACT. II. SCENE I.

Cal. Pox o'these easie Coxcombs! If he had
Ask'd Wives and Children too he might have had 'em.
Could not their wise simplicities stand out,
And let us conquer 'em?
Phi. I feel mine Arms
Grow stiff again: I shall employ my strength
Only in carrying up of Pasties now.
Pru. (Is she not wondrous fair? not wondrous handsome?)
Cal. We shall do nothing but drink Healths in Helmets
To him and his Leucasia , (as they call her)
Whiles he encircles her in amorous folds,
And practiseth sweet Battels in a Featherbed.
Pru. (What Torrent is't hurries my Passions thus?)
Phi. Failty of Man! These Vices are as proper
To your great Ones, as Feavers are, or Surfets:
Most Birds of Prey, you know, are still so subject
To wicked Cramps, they dare not sleep without
A soft warm tender Lark all night i' their Talons.
Pru. (And must a shadow thus my Thoughts confine?)
Cal. His tender Lark hath made us lose our hopes
Of that tough Kite you wot of, the old Widdow
We thought to cast Dice for. Pox upon Hymen ;
I'd rather bear a Torch to fire the City
Than carry one in his Solemnities.
Pru. Traytor, thou knowst not what thou wishest. There's
A Jewell in't, which if it should be lost
'Mong other spoils, I should account my self
Guilty of an Offence 'gainst Heav'n, and Her.
Cal. Must you be imitating of your Prince
In every thing forsooth? And 't please the gods,
Who is that worthy Jewell?
Prus. 'Tis a Name
Fit to be sung by Angels, not profan'd
By Mortall Tongues.
Phil. Hast thou espous'd thy King's
Opinion too in Love? Thou that wert wont
To make a Dole of thine Affection
By scatter'd Lust, dost thou confine thy Dotage
Unto a single Face.
Prus. She's too exact
To be brought forth by Woman: Nature sure
Descending to conceive travail'd with her.
Cal. I will be hang'd if thou hast any brains;
Something there is perhaps that swims i'thy Noddle
Like to a little Curd in Poffet-drink;
But for true Brain, 'tis gon.
Prus. Low Prusias ,
Sure thy deserts will never ballance hers.
Low Prusias , thou'rt unworthy.
Phil. Pray y' who is't
That this low Prusias is unworthy of?
Prus. O! do not vex me!
Cal. This is like the reading
Of a great swelling bumbast Coppy o' Verses,
And hiding of the Theam.
Prus. T' your Charges, Captains.
What do you here?
Cal. Faith laugh at you. Where is
Your Willow, and your Halter?
Prus. Do not put me
To th' second Warning — — O! I am not well.
Phil. Good faith, h' hath conn'd Misander , & we came
Just to the Repetition: Come, let's follow:
We will not lose this sport, although we have
Lost both our hopes, the Widdow, and the Spoyl.