PRIS. Sappho was Excellent at it; but Amphion he-- He was the man that outdid all: 'tis said Of him that he could draw stones with the sound Of his sweet strings. I'd willingly arrive At some perfection in the quality. MEAN. I do acknowledge your desires most prone. This for your trouble. PRIS. I am not mercenary; Your acceptation is reward enough. MEAN. You have it, then. PRIS. Beauty go with you, sir. [_Exeunt several ways._ SCENE IV. CREDULOUS, HEARSAY, SLICER; _to them_ SIR THOMAS BITEFIG, HAVE-AT-ALL, CASTER, _as_ _to the Ordinary_. CRE. You're welcome, friends, as I may say---- HEAR. You do forget---- CRE. That am a guest as well as you. SLICER. Most noble sons of fortune and of valour, You grace us with your presence: you must pardon Our small provision. HEAR. No variety here, But you, most noble guests, whose gracious looks Must make a dish or two become a feast. HAVE. I'll be as free as 'twere mine own. CAS. Who thinks On anything that borders upon sadness, May he ne'er know what's mirth, but when others Laugh at his sullen wrinkles. HAVE. We will raise A noise enough to wake an alderman, Or a cast captain when the reck'ning is About to pay. CRE. Hang thinking; 'snigs, I'll be As merry as a pismire. Come, let's in. SLICER. Let's march in order military, sirs. HAVE. That's well remember'd, most complete lieutenant. [_Exeunt as to the Ordinary._ SCENE V. RHYMEWELL, BAGSHOT, VICAR CATCHMEY, SIR CHRISTOPHER. RHYME. Come, my most noble order of the club, 'Cause none will else, let's make much of ourselves: His letter may procure a dinner yet. BAG. Cheer up, Sir Kit, thou look'st too spiritually: I see too much of the tithepig in thee. CHRIS. I'm not so happy: Kit's as hungry now As a besieged city, and as dry As a Dutch commentator. This vile world Ne'er thinks of qualities: good truth, I think 'T hath much to answer for. Thy poetry, Rhymewell, and thy voice, Vicar Catchmey, and Thy law too, Bagshot, is contemn'd: 'tis pity Professions should be slighted thus. The day Will come perhaps, when that the commonwealth May need such men as we. There was a time When cobblers were made churchmen; and those black'd Smutch'd creatures thrust into white surplices, Look'd like so many magpies, and did speak Just as they [did], by rote. But now the land Surfeits forsooth: poor labourers in divinity Can't earn their groat a day, unless it be Reading of the Christian burial for the dead; When they, ev'n for that reason, truly thank God for thus taking this their brother to him. CATCH. Something profane, Sir Christopher!