_Tyr._ Come, my young sonne, hold vp & catch audacitye; I see thy hand with the eyes of my capacitye. Though I speake riddles, thinke not I am typsye, For what I speake I learnde it of a gipsye, And though I speak hard woords of curromanstike, Doe not, I pray, suppose that I am franticke. The table of thy hand is somewhat ragged, Thy mensall line is too direct and cragged, [230] Thy line of life, my sonne, is to, to breife, And crosseth Venus girdle heere in cheife, And heere (O dolefull signe) is overthwarte In Venus mount a little pricke or warte. [F. 77v rev.] Besides heere, in the hillocke of great Jupiter, Monnsieur la mors lyes lurking like a sheppbiter; What can I make out of this hard construction But dolefull dumpes, decay, death, & destruction? _Cep._ O furious fates, O three thread-thrumming sisters, O fickle fortune, thou, thou art the mistres [240] Of this mishapp; why am I longer liver? Runne river, runne, & drowne thee in the river. _Tyr._ Then sith to thee, my sonne, I doe pronounce ill, It shall behove thee for to take good counsell, And that eft soone; wisdoome they say is good, Your parents ambo have done what they coode, They can but bringe horse to the water brinke, But horse may choose whether that horse will drinke. _Lyr._ Oh say, thou holy preist of high Apollo, What harme, what hurt, what chaunge, what chaunce, will [250] followe, That if wee can wee may provide a plaster Of holsome hearbes to cure this dire disaster. _Tyr._ If I should tell you, you amisse would iudge it; I have one salve, one medecine, in my budgett, And that is this, since you will have mee tell, If hee himselfe doe never knowe; farewell. [_Exit_ TYR. _Lyr._ Mary come out, is his ould noddle dotinge? Heere is an ould said saw well woorth the notinge; Shall hee not know himselfe? Who shall hee then? [F. 77r rev.] My boy shall knowe himselfe from other men, [260] I, & my boy shall live vntill hee dye, In spight of prophett & in spight of pye. It is an ould sawe: That it is too late When steede is stolne to shutt the stable gate; Therfore take heed; yet I bethinke at Delph, One Phibbus walls is written: Knowe thyselfe. Shall hee not know himselfe, and so bee laught on, When as Apollo cries, gnotti seauton? [_Exeunt._ DORASTUS. CLINIAS. Come, prethy lett vs goe: come, Clinias, come, And girt thy baskett dagger to thy bumme; [270] Lett vs, I say, bee packinge, and goe meete The poore blind prophett stalking in the streete: Lett us be iogginge quickly. _Cli._ Peace, you asse, I smell the footinge of Tyresias. _Enter_ TYRESIAS.