NEV. How well does Scudmore speak ill for himself! Wit's a disease that fit employment wants; Therefore we see those happiest in best parts, And fortunes under-born unto their merits,[47] Grow to a sullen envy, hate, and scorn Of their superiors; and at last, like winds, Break forth into rebellious civil wars Or private treasons: none so apt for these As melancholy wits, fetter'd with need. How free's the rustic swain from these assaults! He never feels a passion all his life, But when he cannot sleep, or hunger gripes; And though he want reason, wit, art--nay, sense, Is not so senseless to capitulate, And ask God why he made not him as great As that same foolish lord or that rich knave? His brain with nothing does negotiate, But his hard husbandry, which makes him live. But have we worthy gifts, as judgment, learning, Ingenious sharpness (which wise God indeed Doth seldom give out of His equal hand, But join'd with poverty, to make it even With riches, which he clogs with ignorance), We vent our blessing in profane conceits, Foul bawdry, or strong arguments against Ourselves,[48] and stark blindly hold it best Rather to lose a soul than lose a jest. SCUD. Ill terms my friend this wit in any man; For that, but season'd with discretion, Holds him in awe of all these blemishes Frees him of envy, doth philosophise His spirit, that he makes no difference 'Twixt man and man, 'twixt fortunes high and low, But as the thicker they with virtues grow. Freedom and bondage wit can make all one; So 'twould by being left and being lov'd, If I had any of it temper'd so. But you have spoke all this, condemning me For having wit to speak against myself, But I'll be rul'd by you in all. NEV. Then thus. To-night by promise I do give a masque, As to congratulate the bridal day, In which the Count, Pendant, and the wise knight Will be most worthy dancers: sir, you shall Learn but my part, which I will teach you too, As nimbly as the usher did teach me, And follow my further directions. Though I, i' th' morn, were [no][49] prodigious wight, I'll give thee Bellafront in thine arms to-night. SCUD. I am your property, my enginer.[50] Prosper your purposes! shine, thou eye of heaven. And make thy lowering morn a smiling even! [_Exeunt._ SCENE II. _Enter_ CAPTAIN POUTS, _with a letter, and_ STRANGE, _like a soldier_. STRANGE. O, these are Lambeth fields. CAPT. POUTS. Strange murder'd on the weddingday by you, At his own bride's appointment, for my sake? STRANGE. As dead as charity. CAPT. POUTS. This sounds not well.