MEN. To loose yourself. [_Aside_.]

TAC. A crown and a robe.

MEN. It had been fitter for you to have found a fool's coat and a
bauble[181], eh, eh? [_Aside_.]

TAC. Jupiter, Jupiter, how came this here?

MEN. O sir, Jupiter is making thunder, he hears you not: here's one
knows better. [_Aside_.]

TAC. 'Tis wondrous rich, ha! but sure it is not so, ho!
Do I not sleep and dream of this good luck, ha?
No, I am awake and feel it now;
Whose should it be? [_He takes it up_.

MEN. Set up a _si quis_ for it. [_Aside_.]

TAC. Mercury! all's mine own; here's none to cry half's mine.

MEN. When I am gone.

[_Exit_ MENDACIO.

SCAENA SEXTA.

TACTUS _solus_.

TAC. Tactus, thy sneezing somewhat did portend.
Was ever man so fortunate as I?
To break his shins at such a stumbling-block!
Roses and bays, pack hence[182]: this crown and robe
My brows and body circles and invests;
How gallantly it fits me! sure the slave
Measur'd my head that wrought this coronet.
They lie that say complexions cannot change:
My blood's ennobled, and I am transform'd
Unto the sacred temper of a king.
Methinks I hear my noble parasites
Styling me Caesar or great Alexander;
Licking my feet, and wondering where I got
This precious ointment. How my pace is mended!
How princely do I speak! how sharp I threaten!
Peasants, I'll curb your headstrong impudence,
And make you tremble when the lion roars,
Ye earth-bred worms. O, for a looking-glass!
Poets will write whole volumes of this scorce[183];
Where's my attendants? Come hither, sirrah, quickly;
Or by the wings of Hermes--

SCAENA SEPTIMA.

OLFACTUS, _in a garland of bays intermingled with
white and red roses upon a false hair, his sleeves
wrought with flowers under a damask mantle, over a
pair of silk bases; a pair of buskins drawn with
ribbon, a flower in his hand_.

TACTUS, OLFACTUS.

TAC. Ay me! Olfactus comes; I call'd too soon,
He'll have half part, I fear; what shall I do!
Where shall I run? how shall I shift him off?
[TACTUS _wraps up the robe and crown, and sits upon them_.

OLF. This is the time, and this the place appointed,
Where Visus promis'd to confer with me.
I think he's there--no, no, 'tis Tactus sure.
How now? what makes you sit so nicely?

TAC. 'Tis past imagination, 'tis so indeed.

OLF. How fast his hands[184] are fixed, and how melancholy he looks!
Tactus! Tactus!

T