+Plot.+ Then my poet No longer shall write catches or thin sonnets, Nor preach in verse, as if he were suborn'd By him that wrote the Whip,[233] to pen lean acts, And so to overthrow the stage for want Of salt or wit. Nor shall he need torment Or persecute his Muse; but I will be His god of wine t' inspire him. He shall no more Converse with the five-yard butler who, like thunder, Can turn beer with his voice, and roar it sour; But shall come forth a Sophocles, and write Things for the buskin. Instead of Pegasus, To strike a spring with's hoof, we'll have a steel Which shall but touch a butt, and straight shall flow A purer, higher, wealthier Helicon. +Sale.+ Frank, thou shalt be my Phœbus. My next poem Shall be thy uncle's tragedy, or the life And death of two rich merchants. +Plot.+ Gentlemen, And now, i' faith, what think you of the fish? +Ware.+ Why as we ought, sir, strangely. +Bright.+ But do you think it is a very fish? +Sale.+ Yes. +New.+ 'Tis a man. +Plot.+ This valiant captain and this man of wit First fox'd him, then transformed him. We will wake him, And tell him the news. Ho, Master Timothy! +Tim.+ Plague take you, captain! +Plot.+ What, does your sack work still? +Tim.+ Where am I? +Plot.+ Come, y' have slept enough. +Bright.+ Master Timothy! How, in the name of fresh cod, came you chang'd Into a sea-calf thus? +New.+ 'Slight, sir, here be Two fishmongers to buy you; bate the price, Now y' are awake, yourself. +Tim.+ How's this? my hands Transmuted into claws? my feet made flounders? Array'd in fins and scales? Aren't you Asham'd to make me such a monster? Pray, Help to undress me. +Plot.+ We have rare news for you. +Tim.+ No letter from the lady, I hope. +Plot.+ Your father And my grave uncle, sir, are cast away. +Tim.+ How? +Plot.+ They by this have made a meal For jacks and salmon: they are drown'd. +Bright.+ Fall down, And worship sea-coals; for a ship of them Has made you, sir, an heir. +Plot.+ This fellow here Brings the auspicious news: and these two friends Of ours confirm it. +Cyph.+ 'Tis too true, sir. +Tim.+ Well, We are all mortal; but in what wet case Had I been now, if I had gone with him! Within this fortnight I had been converted Into some pike; you might ha' cheapen'd me In Fish Street; I had made an ordinary, Perchance, at the Mermaid.[234] Now could I cry Like any image in a fountain, which Runs lamentations. O my hard misfortune! [_He feigns to weep._ +Sea.+ Fie, sir! good truth, it is not manly in you To weep for such a slight loss as a father. +Tim.+ I do not cry for that. +Sea.+ No? +Tim.+ No, but to think, My mother is not drown'd too.