CRI. Where I have seen, most honour'd Arete, The strangest pageant, fashion'd like a court, (At least I dreamt I saw it) so diffused, So painted, pied, and full of rainbow strains; As never yet, either by time, or place, Was made the food to my distasted sense; Nor can my weak imperfect memory Now render half the forms unto my tongue, That were convolved within this thrifty room. Here stalks me by a proud and spangled sir, That looks three handfuls higher then his foretop; Savours himself alone, is only kind And loving to himself; one that will speak More dark and doubtful than six oracles! Salutes a friend, as if he had a stitch; Is his own chronicle, and scarce can eat For regist'ring himself; is waited on By mimics, jesters, panders, parasites, And other such like prodigies of men. He past, appears some mincing marmoset Made all of clothes and face; his limbs so set As if they had some voluntary act Without man's motion, and must move just so In spight of their creation: one that weighs His breath between his teeth, and dares not smile Beyond a point, for fear t'unstarch his look; Hath travell'd to make legs, and seen the cringe Of several courts, and courtiers; knows the time Of giving titles, and of taking walls; Hath read court common-places; made them his: Studied the grammar of state, and all the rules Each formal usher in that politic school Can teach a man. A third comes, giving nods To his repenting creditors, protests To weeping suitors, takes the coming gold Of insolent and base ambition, That hourly rubs his dry and itchy palms; Which griped, like burning coals, he hurls away Into the laps of bawds, and buffoons' mouths. With him there meets some subtle Proteus, one Can change, and vary with all forms he sees; Be any thing but honest; serves the time; Hovers betwixt two factions, and explores The drifts of both; which, with cross face, he bears To the divided heads, and is received With mutual grace of either: one that dares Do deeds worthy the hurdle or the wheel, To be thought somebody; and is in sooth Such as the satirist points truly forth, That only to his crimes owes all his worth. ARE. You tell us wonders, Crites.