_Lat._ Sir? why, what should stay my faith, or turn my sense? He has been about it above twenty years, Three sevens, the powerfull, and the perfect numbers; And Art and time, Sir, can produce such things. What do I read there of _Hiarbas_ banquet? The great Gymnosophist, that had his Butlers And carvers of pure gold waiting at table? The images of _Mercury_, too, that spoke? The wooden door that flew? a snake of brass That hist? and birds of Silver that did sing? All those new done by the Mathematicks, Without which there's no science, nor no truth. _Rol._ You are in your sphear, _Latorch_: and rather Than I'le contend w'ye for it, I'le believe it, Y'have won upon me that I wish to see My fate before me now, what e're it be. _Lat._ And I'le endeavour, you shall know with speed, For which I should have one of trust go with me, If you please, _Hamond_, that I may by him Send you my first dispatches; after I Shall bring you more, and as they come still more. _Rol._ Take your way, Choose your own means, and be it prosperous to us. [_Exeunt._ SCENE II. _Enter_ Rusee, _de_ Bube, _la_ Fiske, Norbret, Pippeau. _Rus._ Come, bear up Sirs, we shall have better days, My Almanack tells me. _Bub._ What is that? your rump? _Rus._ It never itch'd in vain yet, slide _la Fiske_, Throw off thy sluggish face, I cannot abide To see thee look like a poor Jade i'th' pound, That saw no meat these three days. _Fiske._ 'Slight, to me It seems thirteen dayes since I saw any. _Rus._ How? _Fis._ I can't remember that I ever saw Or meat or mony, you may talk of both To open a mans stomach or his purse, But feed 'em still with air. _Bub._ Friar, I fear You do not say your Office well a dayes. _Nor._ Pox, he feeds With leachery, and lives upon th' exchange Of his two Eggs and Puddings with the market women. _Rus._ And what do you Sir, with the Advocates wife, Whom you perswade, upon your Doctoral bed, To take the Mathematical trance so often? _Fis._ Come, we are stark naught all, bad's the best of us, Four of the seven deadly spots we are; Besides our Leachery, we are envious, And most, most gluttonous when we have it thus, Most covetous now we want it; then our Boy He is a fifth spot, sloth and he undoes us. _Bub._ 'Tis true, the child was wont to be industrious, And now and then sent to a Merchants wife Sick of the Husband, or a swearing Butler That mist of his Bowls, a crying Maid Had lost a Silver spoon; the Curry comb Sometimes was wanting; there was something gotten; But now--