AC. For this is true, man's life is wondrous brittle.

OLF. He's mad, I think, he talks so idly. So ho, Tactus!

TAC. And many have been metamorphosed
To stranger matters and more uncouth forms.

OLF. I must go nearer him; he doth not hear.

TAC. And yet methinks, I speak as I was wont;
And--

OLF. Tactus, Tactus!

TAC. Olfactus, as thou lov'st me, come not near me.

OLF. Why, art thou hatching eggs? th'art afeard[185] to break them?

TAC. Touch me not, lest thou chance to break my life.

OLF. What's this under thee?

TAC. If thou meddle with me, I am utterly undone.

OLF. Why, man, what ails thee?

TAC. Let me alone, and I'll tell thee;
Lately I came from fine Phantastes' house.

OLF. So I believe, for thou art very foolish.

TAC. No sooner had I parted out of doors[186],
But up I held my hands before my face,
To shield mine eyes from th'light's piercing beams;
When I protest I saw the sun as clear
Through these my palms, as through a perspective.
No marvel; for when I beheld my fingers,
I saw my fingers were transform'd to glass;
Opening my breast, my breast was like a window,
Through which I plainly did perceive my heart:
In whose two concaves[187] I discern'd my thoughts
Confus'dly lodged in great multitudes.

OLF. Ha, ha, ha, ha! why, this is excellent,
Momus himself can find no fault with thee,
Thou'dst make a passing live anatomy;
And decide the question much disputed
Betwixt the Galenists and Aristotle.

TAC. But when I had arriv'd, and set me down
Viewing myself--myself, ay me! was changed,
As thou now seest, to a perfect urinal.

OLF. T'a perfect urinal? O monstrous, monstrous!
Art not mad to think so?

TAC. I do not think so, but I say I am so,
Therefore, Olfactus, come not near, I advise you.

OLF. See the strange working of dull melancholy!
Whose drossy thoughts, drying the feeble brain,
Corrupts the sense, deludes the intellect,
And in the soul's fair table falsely graves
Whole squadrons of fantastical chimeras
And thousand vain imaginations,
Making some think their heads as big as horses,
Some that th'are dead[188], some that th'are turn'd to wolves[189],
As now it makes him think himself all glass.
Tactus, dissuade thyself; thou dost but think so.

TAC. Olfactus, if thou lov'st me, get thee gone;
I am an urinal, I dare not stir
For fear of cracking in the bottom.

OLF. Wilt thou sit thus all day?

TAC. Unless thou help me.

OLF. Bedlam must help thee. What wouldst