LIN. Why, this is good. By Common Sense's means, Lingua, thou hast fram'd a perfect comedy. They are all good friends, whom thou mad'st enemies; And I am half a Sense: a sweet piece of service, I promise you, a fair step to preferment! Was this the care and labour thou hast taken To bring thy foes together to a banquet, To lose thy crown, and be deluded thus! Well, now I see my cause is desperate, The judgment's pass'd, sentence irrevocable, Therefore I'll be content and clap my hands, And give a plaudite to their proceedings. What, shall I leave my hate begun unperfect? So foully vanquish'd by the spiteful Senses! Shall I, the embassadress of gods and men, That pull'd proud Phoebe from her brightsome sphere, And dark'd Apollo's countenance with a word, Raising at pleasure storms, and winds, and earthquakes, Be overcrow'd, and breathe without revenge? Yet they forsooth, base slaves, must be preferred, And deck themselves with my right ornaments. Doth the all-knowing Phoebus see this shame Without redress? will not the heavens help me? Then shall hell do it; my enchanting tongue Can mount the skies, and in a moment fall From the pole arctic to dark Acheron. I'll make them know mine anger is not spent; Lingua hath power to hurt, and will to do it. Mendacio, come hither quickly, sirrah. MEN. Madam. LIN. Hark, hither in thine ear. MEN. Why do you whisht[298] thus? here's none to hear you. LIN. I dare not trust these secrets to the earth, E'er since she brought forth reeds, whose babbling noise Told all the world of Midas' ass's ears. [_She whispers him in the ear_.] Dost understand me? MEN. Ay, ay, ay--never fear that--there's a jest indeed-- Pish, pish--madam--do you think me so foolish?--Tut, tut, doubt not. LIN. Tell her, if she do not-- MEN. Why do you make any question of it?--what a stir is here--I warrant you--presently! [_Exit_ MENDACIO. LIN. Well, I'll to supper, and so closely cover The rusty canker of mine iron spite With golden foil of goodly semblances. But if I do not trounce them-- [_Exit_ LINGUA. ACTUS QUINTUS, SCAENA PRIMA. MENDACIO, _with a bottle in his hand_. MEN. My Lady Lingua is just like one of these lean-witted comedians who, disturbing all to the fifth act, bring down some Mercury or Jupiter in an engine to make all friends: so she, but in a contrary manner, seeing her former plots dispurposed, sends me to an old witch called Acrasia to help to wreak her spite upon the Senses. The old hag, after many an encircled circumstance, and often naming of the direful Hecate and Demogorgon. gives me this bottle of wine, mingled with such hellish drugs and forcible words that, whosoever drinks of it shall be presently possessed with an enraged and mad kind of anger. SCAENA SECUNDA. MENDACIO, CRAPULA, APPETITUS _crying_. MEN. What's this, Crapula beating Appetitus out of doors? ha?