SORD. Ay, and the prints of them stick in my flesh, Deeper than in their letters: they have sent me Pills wrapt in paper here, that, should I take them, Would poison all the sweetness of my book, And turn my honey into hemlock juice. But I am wiser than to serve their precepts, Or follow their prescriptions. Here's a device, To charge me bring my grain unto the markets: Ay, much! when I have neither barn nor garner, Nor earth to hid it in, I'll bring 't; till then, Each corn I send shall be as big as Paul's. O, but (say some) the poor are like to starve. Why, let 'em starve, what's that to me? are bees Bound to keep life in drones and idle moths? no: Why such are these that term themselves the poor, Only because they would be pitied, But are indeed a sort of lazy beggars, Licentious rogues, and sturdy vagabonds, Bred by the sloth of a fat plenteous year, Like snakes in heat of summer, out of dung; And this is all that these cheap times are good for: Whereas a wholesome and penurious dearth Purges the soil of such vile excrements, And kills the vipers up. HIND. O, but master, Take heed they hear you not. SORD. Why so? HIND. They will exclaim against you. SORD. Ay, their exclaims Move me as much, as thy breath moves a mountain. Poor worms, they hiss at me, whilst I at home Can be contented to applaud myself, To sit and clap my hands, and laugh, and leap, Knocking my head against my roof, with joy To see how plump my bags are, and my barns. Sirrah, go hie you home, and bid your fellows Get all their flails ready again I come. HIND. I will, sir. [EXIT. SORD. I'll instantly set all my hinds to thrashing Of a whole rick of corn, which I will hide Under the ground; and with the straw thereof I'll stuff the outsides of my other mows: That done, I'll have them empty all my garners, And in the friendly earth bury my store, That, when the searchers come, they may suppose All's spent, and that my fortunes were belied. And to lend more opinion to my want, And stop that many-mouthed vulgar dog, Which else would still be baying at my door, Each market-day I will be seen to buy Part of the purest wheat, as for my household; Where when it comes, it shall increase my heaps: 'Twill yield me treble gain at this dear time, Promised in this dear book: I have cast all. Till then I will not sell an ear, I'll hang first. O, I shall make my prices as I list; My house and I can feed on peas and barley. What though a world of wretches starve the while; He that will thrive must think no courses vile. [EXIT. COR. Now, signior, how approve you this? have the humourists exprest themselves truly or no?