ose such harmony.
Wretched Auditus, now shalt thou never hear
The pleasing changes that a well-tun'd chord
Of trolling bells will make, when they are rung.

APP. Here's ado indeed! I think he's mad, as well as drunk or deaf.

AUD. Ha, what's that?

APP. I say you have made me hoarse with speaking so loud.

AUD. Ha, what say'st thou of a creaking crowd?[307]

APP. I am hoarse, I tell you, and my head aches.

AUD. O, I understand thee! the first crowd was made of a horse-head.
'Tis true, the finding of a dead horse-head
Was the first invention of string instruments,
Whence rose the gittern, viol, and the lute:
Though others think the lute was first devis'd
In imitation of a tortoise-back,
Whose sinews, parched by Apollo's beams,
Echo'd about the concave of the shell:
And seeing the shortest and smallest gave shrill'st sound,
They found out frets, whose sweet diversity
(Well-touched by the skilful learned fingers)
Raiseth so strange a multitude of chords.
Which their opinion many do confirm,
Because Testado signifies a lute.
But if I by no means--

APP. Nay, if you begin to critic once, we shall never have done.

[_Exit_ APPETITUS, _and carries away_ AUDITUS _perforce_.

SCAENA DECIMA.

CRAPULA, _a fat-bellied slave, clothed in a light veil of
sarsanet, a garland of vine-leaves on his head, &c_. SOMNUS
_in a mantle of black cobweb lawn down to the foot, over a
dusky-coloured taffeta coat, and a crown of poppy-tops on
his head, a company of dark-coloured silk scarfs in one hand,
a mace of poppy in the other, leaving his head upon a pillow
on_ CRAPULA'S _shoulders_.

CRA. Somnus, good Somnus, sweet Somnus, come apace!

SOM. Eh, O, O; are you sure they be so? oho, oho, oho; eh, waw?
What good can I do? ou, hoh, haw.

CRA. Why, I tell you, unless you help--
[SOMNUS _falls down and sleeps_.
Soft son of night, right heir to quietness,
Labour's repose, life's best restorative,
Digestion's careful nurse, blood's comforter,
Wit's help, thought's charm, the stay of Microcosm,
Sweet Somnus, chiefest enemy to care:
My dearest friend, lift up thy lumpish head,
Ope thy dull eyes, shake off this drowsiness,
Rouse up thyself.

SOM. O Crapula, how now, how now! O, O, how; who's there?
Crapula, speak quickly, what's the matter?

CRA. As I told you, the noble Senses, peers of Microcosm,
Will eftsoon fall to ruin perpetual.
Unless your ready helping-hand