D PROSAITES.

COS. Save you sweet bloods! does any of you want a creature, or a
dependent?

CRI. Beshrew me, a fine blunt slave!

AMO. A page of good timber! it will now be my grace to entertain
him first, though I cashier him again in private.--How art thou
call'd?

COS. Cos, sir, Cos.

CRI. Cos! how happily hath fortune furnish'd him with a whetstone?

AMO. I do entertain you, Cos; conceal your quality till we be
private; if your parts be worthy of me, I will countenance you; if
not, catechise you.--Gentles, shall we go?

ASO. Stay, sir: I'll but entertain this other fellow, and then--
I have a great humour to taste of this water too, but I'll come
again alone for that--mark the place.--What's your name, youth?

PROS. Prosaites, sir.

ASO. Prosaites! a very fine name; Crites, is it not?

CRI. Yes, and a very ancient one, sir, the Beggar.

ASO. Follow me, good Prosaites; let's talk.

[EXEUNT ALL BUT CRITES.]

CRI. He will rank even with you, ere't be long.
If you hold on your course. O, vanity
How are thy painted beauties doted on,
By light and empty idiots! how pursued
With open, and extended appetite!
How they do sweat, and run themselves from breath,
Raised on their toes, to catch thy airy forms,
Still turning giddy, till they reel like drunkards,
That buy the merry madness of one hour
With the long irksomeness of following time!
O, how despised and base a thing is man,
If he not strive to erect his grovelling thoughts
Above the strain of flesh? but how more cheap,
When, ev'n his best and understanding part,
The crown and strength of all his faculties,
Floats, like a dead drown'd body, on the stream
Of vulgar humour, mixt with common'st dregs!
I suffer for their guilt now, and my soul,
Like one that looks on ill-affected eyes,
Is hurt with mere intention on their follies.
Why will I view them then, my sense might ask me?
Or is't a rarity, or some new object,
That strains my strict observance to this point?
O, would it were! therein I could afford
My spirit should draw a little near to theirs,
To gaze on novelties; so vice were one.
Tut, she is stale, rank, foul; and were it not
That those that woo her greet her with lock'd eyes,
In spight of all th' impostures, paintings, drugs,
Which her bawd, Custom, dawbs her cheeks withal,
She