MENDACIO, _with cushions under his arms, trips up_ ANAMNESTES' _heels_. MENDACIO, ANAMNESTES. ANA. How now? MEN. Nothing, but lay you upon the cushion, sir, or so. ANA. Nothing, but lay the cushion upon you, sir. MEN, What, my little Nam? By this foot, I am sorry I mistook thee. ANA. What, my little Men? By this hand, it grieves me I took thee so right. But, sirrah, whither with these cushions? MEN. To lay them here, that the judges may sit softly, lest my Lady Lingua's cause go hard with her. ANA. They should have been wrought with gold; these will do nothing. But what makes my lady with the judges? MEN. Pish! know'st not? She sueth for the title of a Sense, as well as the rest that bear the name of the Pentarchy. ANA. Will Common Sense and my master leave their affairs to determine that controversy? MEN. Then thou hear'st nothing. ANA. What should I hear? MEN. All the Senses fell out about a crown fallen from heaven, and pitched a field for it; but Vicegerent Common Sense, hearing of it, took upon him to umpire the contention, in which regard he hath appointed them (their arms dismissed) to appear before him, charging every one to bring, as it were in a show, their proper objects, that by them he may determine of their several excellencies. ANA. When is all this? MEN. As soon as they can possibly provide. ANA. But can he tell which deserves best by their objects? MEN. No, not only; for every Sense must describe his instrument, that is, his house, where he performs his daily duty, so that by the object and the instrument my lord can with great ease discern their place and dignities. ANA. His lordship's very wise. MEN. Thou shalt hear all anon. Fine Master Phantastes and thy master will be here shortly. But how is't, my little rogue? methinks thou look'st lean upon't! ANA. Alas! how should I do otherwise, that lie all night with such a raw-boned skeleton as Memory, and run all day on his errands? The churl's grown so old and forgetful, that every hour he's calling, Anamnestes, Remembrance; where art, Anamnestes? Then presently something's lost. Poor I must run for it, and these words, _Run, boy; come, sirrah, quick, quick, quick_! are as familiar with him as the cough, never out on's mouth. MEN. Alack, alack! poor rogue, I see my fortunes are better. My lady loves me exceedingly; she's always kissing me, so that I tell thee, Nam, Mendacio's never from betwixt her lips. ANA. Nor I out of Memory's mouth,[241] but in a worse sort, always exercising my stumps, and, which is more, when he favours best, then I am in the worst taking. MEN. How so?