Daw. Shew 'em, miftrefs, fhew 'em; I dare own 'em. Nay, I'll read 'em myself too: An author must recite his own works. It is a madrigal of modesty.

Modeft, and fair, for fair and good are near

Cler. That again, I pray, Sir John.

Dau. It has fomething in't like rare wit and fense. Cler. Peace.

Daw. No noble virtue ever was alone,

But two in one.

Then, when I praise sweet modefty, I praise

Bright beauty's rays:

And having prais'd both beauty and modestee,

I have prais'd thee.

Dau. Admirable !

Cler. How it chimes, and cries tink i' the clofe,

divinely!

Dau. Ay, 'tis Seneca.

Cler. No, I think 'tis Plutarch.

Daw.

Daw. The plague on Plutarch and Seneca! I hate it: Mine own imaginations, by that light. I wonder those fellows have fuch credit with gentlemen!

Cler. They are very grave authors.

Daw. Grave affes! mere effayifts! a few loofe fentences, and that's all. A man would talk fo, his whole age; I do utter as good things every hour, if they were collected and observ'd, as either of 'em.

Dau. Indeed, Sir John?

Cler. He muft needs, living among the wits and braveries too.

Dau. Ay, and being president of 'em, as he is. Daw. There's Ariftotle, a mere common-place fellow; Plato, a difcourfer; Thucydides, and Livy, tedious and dry; Tacitus, an entire knot; fometimes worth the untying, very feldom.

Cler. What do you think of the poets, Sir John? Daw. Not worthy to be nam'd for authors. Homer, an old tedious prolix afs, talks of curriers, and chines of beef; Virgil, of dunging of land, and bees; Horace, of I know not what.

Cler. I think fo.

Daw. And fo Pindar, Lycophron, Anacreon, Catullus, Lucan, Propertius, Tibullus, Martial,

VOL. III.

R

Juvenal,

Juvenal, Aufonius, Statius, Politian, Valerius, Flaccus, and the reft

Cler. What a fack full of names he has got!

Dau. And how he pours 'em out! 'Fore Heaven, you have a fimple learn'd fervant, lady, in titles. Cler. I mufe a mistress can be so filent to the qualities of fuch a fervant.

Daw. Silence is her virtue, Sir. I have written fomewhat of her filence too.

Dau. In verfe, Sir John? How can you justify your own being a poet, that so flight all the old poets?

Daw. Why, every man that writes in verse, is not a poet; you have of the wits that write verfes, and yet are no poets: They are poets that live by it, the poor fellows that live by it. But filence!

Silence in woman, is like speech in man;
Deny't who can?

Dau. Not I, believe it: Your reafon, Sir.
Nor is't a tale,

Daw.

That female vice fhould be a virtue male,

Or mafculine vice a female virtue be:

You fhall it fee

Prov'd with increase:

I know to speak, and she to hold her peace.

Do

Do you conceive me, gentlemen?

Dau. No, faith; how mean you with increafe, Sir John?

Daw. Why, with increafe is, when I court her for the common caufe, and fhe fays nothing, but confentire videtur; and in time is gravida.

Epi. Pray give me my verses again, servant. Daw. If you'll ask 'em aloud, you shall. Epi. Pray give me my verfes again, fervant. Daw. Stay, I must keep these myself, but I'll -go make out another copy, and you fhall have them immediately, miftrefs. [Kiffes her hand and exit. Gler. See, here's Truewit again.

Enter Truewit.

Where haft thou been, in the name of madness! thus accoutred with thy horn?

Tru. Where the sound of it might have pierc❜d your fenfes with gladnefs, had you been in earreach of it. Dauphine, fall down and worship me; I have forbid the bans, lad: I have been with thy virtuous uncle, and have broke the match.

Dau. You ha' not, I hope.

Tru. Yes, faith; an thou shouldft hope otherwife, I fhould repent me: This horn got me entrance; kifs it. I had no other way to get in, but

by feigning to be a post: But when I got in once, I prov'd none, but rather the contrary, turn'd him into a poft, with thundering into him the miseries of marriage. If ever Gorgon were feen in the shape of a woman, he hath seen her in my defcription. Why do you not applaud and adore me, Sirs? Why ftand you mute? Are you stupid? You are not worthy o' the benefit.

Dau. Did not I tell you? Mischief!

Cler. I would you had plac'd this benefit some where else.

Tru. Why fo?

Cler. You have done the most inconfiderate, rash, weak thing, that ever man did to his friend.

Dau. Friend! If the most malicious enemy I have, had studied to inflict an injury upon me, it could not be a greater.

Tru. Wherein? For Heav'n's fake, gentlemen, come to yourselves again.

Dau. But I prefag'd thus much afore to you. Cler. Would my lips had been folder'd when I fpake on't! What mov'd you to be thus imper tinent?

Tru. My mafters, do not put on this ftrange face. to pay my courtesy: Off with this vizor. Have good turns done you, and thank 'em this way!

Dau.