MEN. Yes, yes, yes, 'tis he. LIN. 'Tis he indeed. [_Exit_ LINGUA. SCAENA QUINTA. TACTUS, _in a dark-coloured satin mantle over a pair of silk bases, a garland of bays, mixed with white and red roses, upon a black grogram, a falchion, wrought sleeves, buskins, &c_. MENDACIO, TACTUS. MEN. Now, chaste Diana, grant my nets to hold. TAC. The blushing[179] childhood of the cheerful morn Is almost grown a youth, and overclimbs[180] Yonder gilt eastern hills; about which time Gustus most earnestly importun'd me To meet him hereabouts, what cause I know not. MEN. You shall do shortly, to your cost, I hope. [_Aside_.] TAC. Sure by the sun it should be nine o'clock. MEN. What, a star-gazer! will you ne'er look down? [Aside.] TAC. Clear is the sun and blue the firmament; Methinks the heavens do smile-- [TACTUS _sneezeth_. MEN. At thy mishap! To look so high, and stumble in a trap. [_Aside_. TACTUS _stumbleth at the robe and crown_. TAC. High thoughts have slipp'ry feet, I had well-nigh fallen. MEN. Well doth he fall that riseth with a fall. [_Aside_.] TAC. What's this? MEN. O, are you taken? 'tis in vain to strive. [_Aside_.] TAC. How now? MEN. You'll be so entangled straight-- [_Aside_.] TAC. A crown! MEN. That it will be hard-- [_Aside_.] TAC. And a robe. 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.