Classic Poem

To them

Cratander.

Leoc. Blesse thy senses and thy limbes, faire Master: doe a courtesie to a company of poore distressed Persians; 'tis not mony we aske, nor cloaths; only thy Judgement, thy Judgement, man of Understanding.
Crat. What's your request?
Leoc. That out of thy great Wisdome, soule of Learning,
Thou'd'st be pleas'd to tell us freely, which of us foure is fittest to make a Persian Priest.
Crat. I am not well skill'd in your Persian Rites,
I know not what Man, or how qualify'd
Your Temple may admit of, but I have
Two or three Servants within call here, they
Shall umpire this your variance. Ho! Sisarmes ,
Ho! Artobazes , draw nigh quickly; seize
These foure pernitious Raskalls: did you thinke
You could ly hid? 'tis not your leg good Stratocles ,
Nor your close arme Leocrates , that can
Disguise you from mine eye. I can tell you
Who dranke my death, who were your grand Abettors,
In this designe. You now would know who's fittest
To make a Persian Priest: Malitious fooles,
Is it not all one as to aske me, who
Is fitt'st to Sacrifice me? But you see
I live, and will doe, to your Punishment.
Goe, away with 'em; take them as they are.
Let 'em not alter either Cloaths, or Posture,
But lead 'em through the City thus to Molops ;
And give him charge to keepe 'em so, untill
He heare our farther Pleasure.
Serv. Come along, Gentlemen, wee'le try your stumps,
How many miles a day you can halt.
Str. Sirrah, be civill, or else before Jove I'le pull off my wooden leg, and break your Pate with it, though I dy for it.