SOM. What will he do? see that he escapes us not.
TAC. 'Tis a good shirt: it fits me passing well: 'Tis very warm indeed: but what's the matter?
Methinks I am somewhat hotter than I was, My heart beats faster than 'twas wont to do, My brain's inflam'd, my temples ache extremely; O, O!
O, what a wildfire creeps among my bowels!
Aetna's within my breast, my marrow fries, And runs about my bones; O my sides! O my sides!
My sides, my reins: my head, my reins, my head!
My heart, my heart: my liver, my liver, O!
I burn, I burn, I burn; O, how I burn With scorching heat of implacable fire!
I burn extreme with flames insufferable.
SOM. Sure he doth but try how to act Hercules.
TAC. Is it this shirt that boils me thus? O heavens!
It fires me worse, and heats more furiously Than Jove's dire thunderbolts! O miserable!
They bide less pain that bathe in Phlegeton!
Could not the triple kingdom of the world, Heaven, earth, and hell, destroy great Hercules?
Could not the damned spite[311] of hateful Juno, Nor the great dangers of my labours kill me?
Am I the mighty son of Jupiter, And shall this poison'd linen thus consume me?
Shall I be burnt? Villains, fly up to heaven, Bid Iris muster up a troop of clouds, And shower down cataracts of rain to cool me; Or else I'll break her speckled bow in pieces.
Will she not? no, she hates me like her mistress.
Why then descend, you rogues, to the vile deep.
Fetch Neptune hither: charge him bring the sea To quench these flames, or else the world's fair frame Will be in greater danger to be burnt, Than when proud Phaeton rul'd the sun's rich chariot.
SOM. I'll take that care the world shall not be burnt, If Somnus' cords can hold you. [SOMNUS _binds him_.
TAC. What Vulcan's this that offers to enchain A greater soldier than the god of war?[312]
SOM. He that each night with bloodless battle conquers The proudest conqueror that triumphs by wars.
CRA. Now, Somnus, there's but only one remaining, That was the author of these outrages.
SOM. Who's that? is he under my command?
CRA. Yes, yes, 'tis Appetitus; if you go that way and look about those thickets, I'll go hither, and search this grove. I doubt not but to find him.
SOM. Content.
[_Exeunt_ SOMNUS _et_ CRAPULA.
SCAENA DECIMA SEXTA.
APPETITUS IRASCIBILIS _with a willow in his hand, pulled up by the roots_, SOMNUS, CRAPULA. _The Senses all asleep_.
APP. So now's the time that I would gladly meet These madding Senses that abus'd me thus; What, haunt me like an owl? make an ass of me?
No, they shall know I scorn to serve such masters, As cannot master their affections.
Their injuries have chang'd my nature now; I'll be no more call'd hungry parasite, But henceforth answer to the wrathful name Of Angry Appetite. My choler's up.
Zephyrus, cool me quickly with thy fan, Or else I'll cut thy cheeks. Why this is brave, Far better than to fawn at Gustus' table For a few scraps; no, no such words as these-- By Pluto, stab the villain, kill the slave: By the infernal hags I'll hough[313] the rogue, And paunch the rascal that abus'd me thus.
Such words as these fit angry Appetite.
_Enter_ CRAPULA.
CRA. Somnus, Somnus, come hither, come hither quickly, he's here, he's here!
APP. Ay, marry is he, sirrah, what of that base miscreant Crapula?
CRA. O gentle Appetitus!
APP. You muddy gulch[314], dar'st look me in the face, While mine eyes sparkle with revengeful fire? [_Beats him_.
CRA. Good Appetitus!
APP. Peace, you fat bawson[315], peace, Seest not this fatal engine of my wrath?
Villain, I'll maul thee for thine old offences, And grind thy bones to powder with this pestle!
You, when I had no weapons to defend me, Could beat me out of doors; but now prepare: Make thyself ready, for thou shalt not 'scape.
Thus doth the great revengeful Appetite Upon his fat foe wreak his wrathful spite.
[APPETITUS _heaveth up his club to brain_ CRAPULA; _but_ SOMNUS _in the meantime catcheth him behind, and binds him_.
SOM. Why, how now, Crapula?
CRA. Am I not dead? is not my soul departed?
SOM. No, no, see where he lies, That would have hurt thee: fear nothing.
[SOMNUS _lays the Senses all in a circle, feet to feet, and wafts his wand over them_.
So rest you all in silent quietness; Let nothing wake you, till the power of sleep, With his sweet dew cooling your brains enflam'd, Hath rectified the vain and idle thoughts, Bred by your surfeit and distemperature; Lo, here the Senses, late outrageous, All in a round together sleep like friends; For there's no difference 'twixt the king and clown, The poor and rich, the beauteous and deform'd, Wrapp'd in the veil of night and bonds of sleep; Without whose power and sweet dominion Our life were hell, and pleasure painfulness.
The sting of envy and the dart of love, Avarice' talons, and the fire of hate, Would poison, wound, distract, and soon consume The heart, the liver, life, and mind of man.
The sturdy mower, that with brawny arms Wieldeth the crooked scythe, in many a swath Cutting the flowery pride on velvet plain, Lies down at night, and in the weird[316] folds Of his wife's arms forgets his labour past.
The painful mariner and careful smith, The toiling ploughman, all artificers, Most humbly yield to my dominion: Without due rest nothing is durable.
Lo, thus doth Somnus conquer all the world With his most awful wand, and half the year Reigns o'er the best and proudest emperors.
Only the nurslings of the Sisters nine Rebel against me, scorn my great command; And when dark night from her bedewed[317] wings Drops sleepy silence to the eyes of all, They only wake, and with unwearied toil Labour to find the _Via Lactea_, That leads to the heaven of immortality; And by the lofty towering of their minds, Fledg'd with the feathers of a learned muse, They raise themselves unto the highest pitch, Marrying base earth and heaven in a thought.
But thus I punish their rebellion: Their industry was never yet rewarded: Better to sleep, than wake and toil for nothing.
[_Exeunt_ SOMNUS _and_ CRAPULA.
SCAENA DECIMA SEPTIMA.
_The five Senses_, LINGUA, APPETITUS, _all asleep and dreaming_; PHANTASTES, HEURESIS.
AUD. So ho, Rockwood;[318] so ho, Rockwood; Rockwood, your organ: eh, Chanter, Chanter; by Acteon's head-tire, it's a very deep-mouthed dog, a most admirable cry of hounds. Look here, again, again: there, there, there! ah, ware counter![319]